


Free to Be You and Me

by jhoom



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Blowjobs, Bondage, Bottom!Cas, Breathplay, Butt Plugs, Cop!Dean, Dub!Con, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Murder Husbands, Phone Sex, Road Head, Semi-Public Sex, Sounding, Top!Cas, art dealer!cas, bottom!Dean, breath play, dean/others - Freeform, fear kink, lawyer!Sam, lawyer!gabe, psychopath!Cas, psychopath!dean, psychopath!sam, sam/various people (mentioned), switch!cas, switch!dean, top!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-01 23:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11497080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhoom/pseuds/jhoom
Summary: Dean lost his parents in a fire when he was younger, and he’s never been the same since.Based on the prompt: "I was ten years old when I witnessed the murder of my entire family. The police told me that the person I saw commit the crime was a figment of my imagination - a result of the trauma - but I couldn’t let it rest. In a strange way, they saved me - with everyone else gone I might have gone to pieces, but I HAD to find the killer, so I held it together, I got through school, I rose through the ranks of detective, and now finally, finally, I’m on their trail. I have to find them. I have to meet them. I have to tell them that I love them."





	1. The Boy in the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been a long time coming. I think almost a year ago I got the idea from [unforth](http://unforth-ninawaters.tumblr.com)’s [WPW](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7056115/chapters/16987950) and it kind of stuck. I outlined it and planned to use it for a challenge, but the timing didn’t work and the words weren’t flowing when I needed them to. No point in keeping this in a folder gathering dust — it’s outlined, I’m intrigued by the characters and story, I should try writing it, right?
> 
> I’m going to be vague about some things in this story. Specifically the details surrounding the less than legal things that Sam, Dean, and Cas do. I’ve seen some episodes of CSI or whatever, but I’m not an expert on arson or murder by any means. Plus everything I know about how cops, lawyers, and art dealers work is based on what I’ve seen in the media. I’m going to get stuff wrong, and if I spent all my time researching to get the details just right, I’d frustrate myself and not want to work on this story. So please go forward with a little suspense of disbelief. 
> 
> This story is more about me exploring the psyche of Dean and Cas (and to a lesser extent Sam, who is modeled after soulless Sam) as psychopaths, and hopefully you’ll enjoy the attempt even if I have to fudge some of the details :)
> 
> If you want to talk deancas, murder husbands, or spn in general, come visit me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com).
> 
> Without further ado, here we go!

“Did you brush your teeth?” Mary asked as she peeked into Dean’s bedroom, fingers thrumming on the door frame.

“Yes,” Dean said as he wiggled into his pajama pants.

His mom narrowed her eyes at him. She either decided to believe him or didn’t think it was worth the effort of fighting him on it, because she nodded. “Alright. I’m going to go tuck your brother in, then I’ll come back and read with you.”

Dean finished with his pajamas and went through his bookcase to find a book he wanted. They’d just finished _Holes_ so it was up to Dean to find something new. His hands ran along the spines, almost all of them broken in from being read over and over again; he ignored all of those, and grabbed one he'd gotten for his birthday. He crawled into bed with his selection and waited patiently.

“So what do we have tonight?” Mary asked as she walked over and sat at the edge of his bed. Dean eagerly held up the book and his mom raised an eyebrow. “ _The Hobbit_? Might be a bit thick for a ten year old. Tolkien likes to ramble on a bit too…” She stopped short and laughed when she saw Dean’s glare. “But I suppose we can give it a try. You want me to read it to you or do you want to do it?”

“I want to do it,” Dean insisted as he turned to the first page. He pressed it down and traced over each word as he read. "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit..."

His mom helped him through the first chapter, and Dean remembered being mildly disappointed that there was no mention of the dragon on the cover (half the reason he’d picked out this book). Mary tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and told him to sleep well and angels were watching over him.

She flicked off the light switch and turned back, silhouetted perfectly in the door. Seeing his mom brush her hair out of her eyes as she turned around to blow him a kiss was forever branded in his memory. It was the last time he ever saw her alive.

He woke up to loud beeping and his own coughing. It was too hot and smoke clogged his lungs. In a daze, he stumbled past his parents’ empty bedroom and went downstairs to look for them. If he’d been more awake, he would’ve known something was wrong then.

There was light flickering in the living room so he made his way there. Dean was still rubbing sleep from his eyes, fully expecting to find his parents watching TV, when he stopped short and gasped at the sight before him.

The curtains were on fire. Bright flames stretched and blackened the ceiling. The scene entranced him, so beautiful that it took a while for him to actually see the rest of the room.

The furniture was pushed back, the throw rug pulled up to expose the hardwood, and in the center of the room were his parents. Mary and John Winchester, so still as they lay with their hands stretched out to touch each other, looked to young Dean’s eye to be asleep. Their clothes were a mess, stained red and oozing blood onto the floor. He’d never seen so much blood before, glistening in the fire light where it congealed on the floor and stained the wood.

His eyes followed the red, saw it spreading out around them in the shape of wings. They were painted so intricately, each feather visible where it fanned out from the bone. Dean stepped forward, fingers outstretched as they itched to touch them…

The floor creaked and there was a sudden movement behind the couch. Dean’s head whipped around and saw a strange boy (man? he was older than Dean but didn’t have a beard like his dad or the broad shoulders he expected to see in adults). He was standing there, dark hair matted down with sweat. His torso was bare and painted red.

Not painted, Dean realized. It was blood. Blood marking him in strange patterns and symbols, almost like the ones he saw in _The Hobbit_. He found himself trying to memorize them, tracing them over and over again with his eyes. They started at his navel and trailed up all the way to his neck and stopped just short of where a shirt collar might sit.

Then Dean found himself looking into blue eyes.

Even the harsh light, they practically glowed. Dean was lost in those eyes, predatory and cruel but intrigued, he could stare in them for hours—

“Get away from him!” Sam screeched, throwing his teddy bear at the stranger. It fell well short of him and rolled towards the curtain. It caught on fire almost instantly, drawing attention to just how much the blaze had spread around the room.

The stranger snapped out of his trance as well, noticing how much the fire had spread and how rapidly it would consume the whole room. With a final look at Dean, he turned and ran out through the dining room.

“Dean,” Sam hissed as he yanked at Dean’s sleeve. “We have to go!”

Dean blinked, hand reaching after the stranger, but he let his brother pull him out of the house. The front door was ajar, thankfully, and they didn't’ get caught in the flames licking at their heels.

No sooner were they on the front lawn than they saw neighbors rushing toward them. They ushered them to safety, screaming nonsense the whole time.

“Where are your parents?”

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Somebody call 9-1-1!”

Sirens were blaring in the distance as Sam watched the fire overtake the house they’d grown up in. Dean couldn’t help but look around for signs of the stranger, but he saw none and gave up. Neither boy looked away as the firefighters arrived and immediately got to work trying to salvage the house or at least stop the fire from spreading.

They were too late to help their parents (Dean started to wonder if _he’d_ been too late to help them, never mind the firefighters); the roof collapsed just as the firefighters were prepping to head in. People huddled around them and whispered empty words of comfort. Dean wasn’t sure how to tell them he didn’t _need_ comfort. He wasn’t sad, he wasn’t upset, he just wanted to find the boy with the blue eyes. He wanted to know what he’d done, what the symbols meant...

Dean wanted to watch until the place was nothing but harshly glowing embers, but firm hands lead him and Sam away. He strained to see over his shoulder, but soon it was all blocked from view.

Years later, Dean didn’t really remember what life was like before the fire, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to. The fire was when he came alive, was born anew, and he kept hold of that precious memory more firmly than he did the memories of his parents or his old home. When Dean was ushered into the back of a non distinct beige car, he knew there was only two things he would be able to take away from this night.

Sam and the boy with the blue eyes.

~ ~ ~

They asked about the fire.

Of course they did. But when Sam and Dean told them about the boy in the fire, they dismissed it as nonsense. None of the remains pointed to arson, and who would believe something as fantastical as a teenage boy painting wings and funny symbols in blood.

Instead they zeroed in on Dean’s original suspicion—that his parents were watching TV—and decided that was what happened. Mary and John Winchester fell asleep watching TV together. The fire had started in the living room, smoke inhalation must have gotten to them, and they’d passed out before succumbing to the blaze. It was probably faulty wiring, old houses are like that after all, and really a tragic accident. The boys were lucky they’d been upstairs. Lucky the smoke detector had woken them up and they’d gotten outside.

That was the story, and anything Dean said to the contrary was nothing but a poor boy’s nightmare of a terrible trauma.

Sam gave in first. He’d barely seen the other boy, so he shrugged and admitted maybe he’d imagined it.

“Then why was the front door open?” Dean demanded. “Who was the boy? Why was all the furniture pushed out of the way? And Mom and Dad don’t _like_ watching TV. We don’t even have cable!”

The officers merely shook their heads and shared pitying looks.

“There’s nothing that shows any of those things are true,” a social worker said gently. “Do you think maybe you might be remembering it wrong?”

Dean learned to go along with it. They didn’t want to listen, and he didn’t much care. As long as _he_ knew, that was all that mattered. He’d find the boy all on his own...

The boys were _this close_ to ending up in foster care, bounced from family to family and lost to an unforgiving system that wouldn’t care to keep two lonely brothers together. The only thing that saved them was Bobby.

The Winchesters didn’t have any family. John and Mary were only children, their parents long since passed, and no distant relatives to speak of. What they did have was Bobby Singer, an old friend of their father. The second he heard about the fire, he jumped in his care and drove straight to Lawrence.

“Damn bureaucrats,” Bobby grunted as he finally got the boys settled in his truck for the trip to Sioux Falls. There hadn’t been a whole lot to pack, almost everything they’d owned lost to the fire, and now that Bobby had officially been named their guardian, there was nothing tying them to Lawrence anymore. “You boys ready to go?”

“Sure,” Sam said with a shrug.

“I guess,” Dean grumbled. He clutched the notebook one of the social workers had given him tightly to his chest. She’d said it’d help him to write about how he felt, but really it’d become a journal with everything Dean remembered about that night. Sketches of the boy, drawings of the symbols, even a few attempts to draw the wings around his parents. It was everything he had about that night, and yet

If he left Lawrence, how was he supposed to find the boy in the flames?

Bobby eyed him through the rearview mirror. “I know you don’t like leaving your home, but I think you boys could do with a fresh start.”

Neither Winchester argued, and Bobby sighed restlessly as he shifted the car into gear.

~ ~ ~

They got their own rooms at Bobby’s place. Were enrolled in school. Made friends. All that good stuff.

Sam had no problems fitting in. He was easy going and tended to care more about school and his grades; he tried, so teachers liked him and the other kids flocked to him. When people found out about their parents and why they’d moved to Sioux Falls, they talked about how young he was and how that was helping him adapt.

Dean didn’t really care and he didn’t really try. The only interest he showed in school were in history and language classes that offered some insight on the symbols, and art class so he could improve his sketches of the blue-eyed boy. His grades were mediocre, his pool of friends shallow, and his isolation irrelevant to him. The same people who thought Sam was doing well shook their heads in disapproval and feigned pity.

Whatever. He got a reputation as a loner and he didn’t particularly mind. Ash and Jo were company enough, and there was always Sam. What the hell did he need anyone else for?

His outsider status got him bullied a few times. Once one of the Styne boys, Dean didn’t know which one, pushed him up against a locker. He’d laughed coldly as he demanded Dean’s lunch money and talked shit about his dead parents.

It was a reaction, pure and simple, when he kicked the kid’s shins and knocked him to the ground. Adrenaline pumping through him, he’d followed the rush it gave him and jumped on the kid. The kick had been satisfying, but the punches were like oh so good.

A teacher had to pull him off the kid. Dean got suspended, the kid got a trip to the hospital.

“Boy,” Bobby said while rubbing a hand through his hair before replacing his cap. “This ‘cuz he said something about your parents?”

_No. It just felt good._

“Yes,” Dean said. Bobby’d offered him an out, so he took it. Standing up for yourself and getting upset about someone talking shti about your dead parents was normal. Enjoying it as you made someone bleed wasn’t.

Bobby eyed him skeptically. “Well,” he drawled, “let’s try not to send anyone else to the hospital if we can help it. You’re lucky you didn’t get expelled.”

Dean didn’t agree. He had three days off school, a bike, and a library card. He spent all three of them in the reference stacks trying to find matches for the symbols and taking notes on possible leads.

_~~Sumerian~~ _

_~~Sanskrit~~ _

_~~Nordic Runes~~ _

_Language of the birds ??_

_Enochian ???_

Not that the library had more than a few references to these languages, but it was a start. If he could get to a bigger city with a bigger library…

Dean went back to school, and people avoided him more than usual. He wasn’t just the loner kid anymore, he was the loner who beat up one of the school’s biggest bullies. That didn’t bother him in the slightest; the real issue was how he was going to get his next fix.

Beating up that Styne kid had been fun. It’d been more than fun, it’d been thrilling. He’d had _control_ over him. In the time it took someone to get a teacher, he could’ve done whatever he wanted.

Could’ve cut him open and drawn wings with his blood.

Dean was smart. He knew that if he wanted to do the things he craved, he’d need an excuse. A good one, too. The only reason he hadn’t gotten expelled for the Styne incident was because some kids pointed out that Dean hadn’t started it. He’d been defending himself. So if he could lure other kids into starting shit with him, then he’d be able to retaliate.

It worked, but not for very long. Most of the bullies were wary of him now, and it didn’t help matters that he goaded Ketch and another Styne into fights that ended with a broken nose, three black eyes, a dislocated shoulder, two busted lips, and a broken toe, none of which were Dean’s. He walked away with nothing more than bruised knuckles and a bite mark from when Ketch realized he was going to lose.

After that, the opportunities dried up as the other kids gave him a wide berth and whispered about him in the halls. By the time he reached high school, not a single student would go near him if they didn’t have to. Even Ash and Jo eyed him funny some days, but they kept eating lunch with him so it couldn’t be all that bad what the other kids said about him.

Luckily, the same couldn’t be said for the middle schoolers.

Sam might’ve been well-liked, but he was small. And the bigger kids, the bullies who liked to exert their power over him, didn’t care how nice or smart Sam was. They saw a target and they pushed him around. Tried to, anyway.

It wasn’t that Sam couldn’t take care of himself. He could, and most of the time he did. It was only when the bullies nagged him excessively did Sam roll his eyes and pass them off to Dean. And boy did Dean _love_ having an excuse to pound the living hell out of any kids Sam sent his way.

Most of the kids were so small, he couldn’t really get away with it. He knew too uneven a matchup would raise red flags. He never lay a hand on those kids, instead cornering them behind the school and scaring the crap out of them. They left Sam alone and the few that told on him couldn’t get him in that much trouble. He was defending his kid brother, after all, and he hadn’t done anything other than tell them to back off. They labeled Dean overprotective and a bit of a hothead, and there was nothing wrong with that.

So what if he enjoyed the look of terror in their eyes? That wasn’t a crime, was it?

Then along came Dirk.

Dirk, unlike the other middle school bullies who couldn’t take a hint and leave Sam alone, was big. He technically should’ve been in high school but had failed the seventh grade twice. When Dean saw the kid push his brother after school one day, all bets were off.

“Ain’t they ever tell you to pick on someone your own size?” Dean asked as he stepped between the kid and his brother.

“What, like you?” Dirk grunted as he pushed into Dean’s space.

“Oh no, you’re not really going to hurt me are you?” Dean stuck out his bottom lip and pouted, doing his best to pretend he was actually intimidated by the guy.

“Maybe I will.” He pushed Dean with both hands and Dean had to hold back a smile. Bingo.

“Don’t touch me,” Dean warned. “You wouldn’t want to get in trouble.”

“Why, you gonna tell on me?” Again he pushed Dean, this time with a bit more force. Dean stumbled back.

“Dean,” Sam groaned. “Could you hurry this up? I’ve got a history paper to write.”

“Yeah yeah, it’ll only be a minute.” Dean winked at his brother just before Dirk landed a punch right to his jaw. This time when Dean staggered backward, it was completely genuine.

“Not bad,” he said as he worked his jaw. “Might even leave a mark. But the first one’s always on the house. Now it’s my turn.”

For all his size and tough talk, Dirk was easy to get on his back. Dean pummeled him while a crowd of middle schoolers watched, cheering him on or calling for help or maybe something else entirely. Dean didn’t care. He was having too much fun. There was such immense _satisfaction_ in feeling bone bend and break under his fist. So much beauty in the splash of blood across his knuckles and the bruising already forming along Dirk’s face. He hadn’t gotten to feel this happy, this _free_ in months—

“Take him to the principal. Someone help me get Dirk to the nurse’s office. Winchester, go with your brother.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam grumbled as he followed the teacher dragging Dean away. “I’m not going to get my paper done by tomorrow, am I?”

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean muttered. “Maybe they’ll let you work on it while we wait for Bobby to pick us up?”

They did not, instead questioning the boys separately about what had happened and lecturing them both (or Dean at least got a lecture, he assumed Sam did, too) on proper schoolyard behavior. By the time Bobby showed up, Dean was bored and he wanted to ice his hand. He smiled at the principal and winked at the secretary as Bobby dragged him out by the scruff of his neck.

The car ride home was silent, minus Sam’s complaining. When the arrived, Bobby sent Sam upstairs so he could talk to Dean. Privately.

Bobby went straight on through to the kitchen and grabbed himself a beer, settling in against the counter. He both looked and sounded tired. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll get yourself in trouble that I can’t get you out of if you keep it up.”

“He’s twice Sam’s size!” Dean pointed out. “C’mon, I’m not going to let him beat up Sam—”

“Dean,” Bobby cut in harshly. “I know what you’re doing here, boy.”

“Protecting my brother—?”

“It sure is convenient that you always let them get in the first punch,” Bobby continued, ignoring Dean. “Actually kinda smart. But that don’t mean I don’t see what you’re doing. You like getting into fights, and you like not getting in trouble for it. So here’s what’s happening. Sam’s going to boarding school where he won’t think this kind of behavior’s okay and where he can’t conveniently feed you kids to beat up. And yeah, I know Sam’s helping you. The kid’s too damn smug when he talks about it. Sam’s not violent, and I want to keep it that way.”

Dean swallowed hard. Shit, did Bobby really know? Did Bobby see who Dean was underneath the troubled kid whose parents died in a fire?

“What about me?” he croaked.

Bobby shrugged. “I think we gotta find you a healthier outlet. Put you in Tae Kwon Do or sign you up for wrestling or _something_. You hurt someone doing that, at least you’re not labeled a delinquent.”

Dean stood there, frozen. If he was understanding what Bobby was saying, it almost sounded like…

“You’re helping me?” he asked. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but even he could hear the bit of hope underneath.

“Appears that way. I knew your daddy a long time, and I know he had… issues. He managed them just fine and never got in trouble after high school. Got himself a good job, a lovely wife, two good kids… But he was only able to do that because he found an outlet for them. For him it was hunting. He and I went out every few months and bagged ourselves a few deer or turkeys or what have you, and the craving for more went away. No reason you can’t do the same. You just need the right guidance, is all. I don’t know if I’m the right man for the job, but seeing how I’m all you’ve got, I’ll do my best. By you and by your brother.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” He meant it, too. It was nice, actually, thinking someone could see a piece of who he really was and wasn’t disgusted. “So… When can I start Tae Kwon Do?”

“Soon as I get your brother’s school stuff figured out.”

~ ~ ~

While most kids might throw a fit about transferring schools, Sam brushed it off. As long as it was a good school that would help him get into college, he didn’t care about the friends he’d be leaving behind.

“They’re just kids. I can always make more friends.”

Bobby eyed him worriedly as Sam said that, but he didn’t comment.

Dean ended up doing pretty much every martial art Sioux Falls had to offer. Not that there was a lot, and some required driving out of town. Bobby never complained, though. It was an unspoken deal between them: Dean didn’t get into fights at school and kept his grades steady, and Bobby would drive him wherever he wanted.

And hey, if Dean managed to work in a few trips to bigger libraries to continue his research, then that was only an added benefit.

It was actually more fun this way.

The bullies were used to having control, and flipping that around had always made Dean’s heart flutter in delight. But honestly, it was too easy. They’d never had people stand up to him, so even the slightest push back was all it took. Fighting and sparring against kids who were used to fighting, who were always winning or losing and competing, that was different.

He had to really _work_ to get that look of terror in their eyes.

That made it so much more satisfying when he got it.

The balance the three of them got in their lives worked for them pretty well. Sam was home during summers and vacations, Bobby worked, and Dean did his own thing. It was a routine that Dean liked, and he put off thinking about how that would change once he graduated. There was freedom in being done school, but there were responsibilities. More masks to wear as he had to get a job and find a way to use the few skills he had to make a life for himself.

At the beginning of winter break, Bobby had given Dean a bunch of pamphlets for colleges and vocational schools. He didn’t so much say as pointedly _not_ say what Dean was supposed to do with them.

“A year and a half ain’t that long, boy. You can always work at the shop with me til you get your head on straight, but you gotta have a game plan.”

“Right,” Dean mumbled as he thumbed through the bundle of pamphlets. He waited until he heard Bobby’s footsteps carry him back downstairs before dumping them all in the top drawer of his desk. A year and a half was _plenty_ of time. Besides, he had far more interesting projects to work on.

He grabbed the box that hid his journal and notes, opening it up to find what he could add to it over the break. The journal had become his scrapbook for everything he could find about the fire. All the newspaper clippings from his parents’ death, other strange fires he finds out about, his always improving sketches of iridescent blue eyes, and his notes about the mystery symbol. He’d narrowed it down to Enochian and had tried tracking down a few books on the supposedly angelic language, but so far no luck.

Dean flipped to a new page and grabbed his markers—black and blue—and started sketching. And red. For when he got to the blood.

An hour later, that was how Sam found him when he trudged into Dean’s room with a textbook and notebook in hand. “Dean, can you help me with these derivatives?”

“Why are you doing homework?” he asked without looking up. He’d almost gotten the hair the way he liked… “It’s Christmas.”

“They gave us homework over break. I want to get it done so I don’t have to worry about it.” Sam jumped onto Dean’s bed and lay back against the wall. “... Did they not give you homework over break?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t know, don’t care. Got other stuff I’d rather do.”

“So… you’re _not_ going to help me?”

“You’re welcome to stay and ask questions, but I haven’t done derivatives since last fall.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds were Dean’s markers moving across the paper and Sam shuffling through his textbook. Finally bored of being ignored, Sam crawled over to take a look at what Dean was drawing.

“That’s him, isn’t it? The boy in the fire.”

The surprise caused him to mess up a line and he groaned in frustration at his own mistake. Capping the markers, he turned to look at Sam. “Thought you said he was made up.”

“I just wanted them to stop bugging me. I remember him just fine. Don’t know why you care so much though.”

“You don’t care that this guy killed Mom and Dad?”

Sam considered for a moment, eyes tracing the sketch. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t think so. Do you?”

“No,” Dean admitted. “At least not like that. I just… I dunno. He intrigues me, I guess. I’ve kinda been… uh… trying to find him. Like, I’ve looked for other fires that sound like ours and I keep sketching him so I don’t forget what he looks like. Is that weird?”

Sam leaned back against the wall and opened up his textbook. “I dunno. Maybe? Depends. What are you going to do if you ever find him?”

Staring at blue eyes, Dean felt the corner of his lips quirk up in a half-smile. “I don’t know. I’ll tell you if I ever meet him.”

 


	2. Psychopath in Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep a healthy dose of "willful suspense of disbelief" handy for this chapter - I'm pretty sure any cop who'd killed that many people would have a lot more hurdles to jump through than Dean does.
> 
> Still no Cas this chapter, but he should be making an appearance in the next one :)
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com) and enjoy the new chapter!

Dean spent the rest of his high school career cultivating skills that only really helped him serve two purposes: find an outlet for his growing desire to _hurt_ and help him track down the boy from the fire. That left him a month out from graduation without more than a few acceptance letters from local schools and no desire to attend any of them. He had Bobby’s assurance that he could work at Singer Salvage as long as he needed or wanted to, but that was hardly appealing. Dean craved _freedom_ , and he wasn’t going to get that stuck under his adoptive father’s thumb.

His salvation came in the form of Sheriff Mills.

Jody was a family friend. She’d known Bobby for years and had been friendly to both Sam and Dean since they’d first moved to Sioux Falls. After her husband and son had died in a car crash, she’d become more of a fixture in their lives. They were a patchwork family made out of shared loss—even Bobby had lost his wife to a robbery gone wrong, though that was years before Dean was even born—and it suited them all.

So it was no surprise when she started asking Dean about his plans. Even less so that she did it while over a family dinner.

“You picked a school yet?” Jody asked while buttering a roll of bread. Bobby gave her a warning look (there’d been many arguments on this very topic over the past few months), but she ignored him. That was part of why Dean liked her; she was just about the only person who was never intimidated by Bobby.

“No, ma’am,” he answered. “Bobby wants me to go to Southeast Tech.”

“But you don’t want to,” she guessed. “Too close to home?”

Dean shrugged. The fact that the school was in Sioux Falls wasn’t exactly a mark in its favor. He had a feeling Bobby would keep a far too watchful eye on him for as long as he could. Getting out of state was ideal, especially since he didn’t think his mystery fire man would end up in Sioux Falls of all places.

“I just don’t see the point of going to school,” he said instead. “It seems like a waste of time and money, since I don’t even know what I _want_ to study. All that energy put into taking classes, and I don’t even know what I want to get out of it.”

Jody nodded along. “So really it’s more you don’t know where you see yourself in ten years, so you don’t want to commit to something?”

“I guess.”

“Well I can’t same I blame you, though I never took you as the indecisive type.”

He wasn’t. But Dean had yet to think of a career that would actually help him reach his real goals and wouldn’t be completely tedious to deal with.

“You know,” Jody said, “maybe you could think about become a cop. Now, I’m obviously a little biased, but it’s good work. And you’re smart, you’ve got great discipline through your martial arts, and you definitely are strong enough. Any precinct would be lucky to have you.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea—” Bobby started.

“Why not?” she challenged.

“The boy’s got anger issues. You see the number of times he’s gotten himself suspended and damn near expelled? Thought that was something you didn’t want in a cop.”

“I haven’t had any issues in years,” Dean pointed out. “Not since I started tae kwon do.”

“See. Kid just needed a little structure. I’m serious, Dean. I think you’d make a great cop.”

They didn’t talk about it more at dinner, not with Bobby scowling at the two of them any time he even _thought_ they’d bring it up again, but the idea had been planted. Dean couldn’t deny he was drawn to the prospect. Being a cop would afford him certain… _possibilities_ that he didn’t think he’d have. The first and foremost would be having access to a gun.

Despite all Bobby’s talk about hunting trips with John, not once had he let either boy touch a gun or even a hunting knife. Just thinking about holding a gun, wielding all that power in his hands, gave Dean chills. And as a cop, they’d _train_ him to use it.

He’d be unstoppable.

The next day after school, he sought Jody out about her offer. She’d set him up with a police academy that accepted eighteen year olds. In the meantime, she’d help him find some coursework that he could do to help him along the way.

“And keeping up with the martial arts wouldn’t hurt.” She squeezed his shoulder and smiled up at him. “I think you’re really going to like it.”

“Me too.” He didn’t even have to fake his answering smile; he actually _was_ excited about the prospect.

He kept it from Bobby as long as he could. Maybe it was self preservation, maybe it was to avoid giving the old man a heart attack, but he didn’t want to deal with the fallout. Of course it was kind of hard to avoid the topic when Bobby dropped an envelope in front of him on the dinner table a few weeks later.

“It’s thick,” Bobby commented as Dean picked it up. It was clearly labeled with the police academy Jody had talked to him about, and very clearly addressed to him. “Looks like you got in.”

“Looks like,” Dean said neutrally as he put it on his lap. He’d peruse it later when he was alone. Right now he had to focus on Bobby. “I know you don’t think I can do this—”

“Boy, you know damn well it’s not because I don’t think you can do it,” Bobby snapped. “You’re more than capable. It’s that I worry _about you_. I see those wheels turning in that head of yours, and I know what you’re thinking. You see opportunities for things I was hoping to keep you out of. I can’t keep you from it, I’m just begging you to be careful. You’re putting yourself on a dangerous path, going right into the wolf’s den, and I’m really hoping you don’t fuck it up.”

Once or twice before, they’d edged around this topic. Not as much since he’d stopped getting into fights at school, but the weight of Bobby’s _knowing_ was occasionally there. Sometimes Dean wanted to prod and find out exactly how much Bobby did know. Most of the time, it seemed safer not to bring it up. If he already knew how fucked up Dean was, then saying it did nothing; but if he _didn’t_ and Dean revealed more than he should, well, it could cause a lot of problems.

“I won’t fuck up,” Dean promised. “This is going to be good for me.” And then, because he felt the need to address Bobby’s true concerns, he hesitantly added, “People always have been shit at seeing what’s right in front of their noses. If I’m in there with them, they’re not going to look twice at me.”

“You better hope that’s true.”

“Well, I guess we’ll see.

~ ~ ~

The only thing Bobby insisted on along the way was that Dean take some psychology classes.

“I don’t need to take classes. Don’t need need a degree.”

“It ain’t your damn academy I’m worried about,” Bobby hissed as he pushed the course catalogue into Dean’s chest. “You wanna tempt fate by doing this, I can’t stop you, but I can damn well help you.”

“And this is supposed to help?” Dean asked skeptically. There were a couple pages dog eared and courses highlighted. Intro to Psychology, Clinical Psychology, Criminal Psychology…

“You don’t act right, boy. Sure, you fit in fine but that’s ‘cuz no one’s looking. You get in too deep, they’re gonna wanna take a peek under the hood.”

“So,” Dean said slowly. “You’re saying they’re going to find out I’m not…”

“Yeah,” Bobby cut in, saving Dean from having to finish that thought. “And if you take these classes and pay attention…”

“I’ll figure out how to hide it.”

“Something like that. Hopefully, anyway.”

It wasn’t a terrible idea. It ended up being kind of interesting, actually, learning all the ways the world thought he was broken.

He figured out pretty early on that he was a psychopath, or something like that. He wasn’t really qualified to make that kind of diagnosis, but he kinda liked how it sounded. Nevermind that the description seemed to fit.

Lack of guilt or remorse. Violent tendencies. Shallow emotions. Insincere and superficial.

Those all seemed about right.

They didn’t even seem like bad things. What was the point of feeling guilt? Or remorse? What about sympathy? Or _loss_? If he’d been burdened with that, how the hell would’ve he ever gotten over losing his parents? Sounded like he and Sam were better off the way they were.

Uncaring and cold hearted. Unable to love. Inability to plan for the future.

That’s where they were wrong. Dean cared about things. Dean loved Sam and Bobby. In a fashion, anyway. He’d like to keep them around, at least, and he didn’t like the idea of anything happening to either of them. Though if he were being honest with himself, he wouldn’t been too torn up if they died or disappeared. He preferred having them around than not, but if it came down to it, he’d be fine without them.

And maybe there was something to that inability to plan for the future. Until Bobby got on his case, he hadn’t really had a clue what he was going to do. And he’d needed Jody to give him the idea to become a copy, and then Bobby had stepped up to help him with this psycho mumbo jumbo.

Now that Dean knew that was a weak spot, maybe he could work on it. He needed a plan going forward. None of this going day to day and hoping he’d end up somewhere he wanted to be. That’d probably end up with him staring through bars for the rest of his life. Or worse yet, treatment.

As if he actually _wanted_ to be ‘normal.’

So all he needed was a plan.

~ ~ ~

**Step One: Become a cop.**

This took time. Most precincts wouldn’t take someone under twenty-one, so Dean focused on his coursework and training. By the time Sam was getting accepted to college, Dean was finally starting at his first job.

Although Jody offered him a position in Sioux Falls, Dean felt he had to get away. Bobby knew what he was, but Jody didn’t. She was smart and she’d figure it out soon enough. He had no idea how she’d react to having encouraged a future killer to become a cop, and if she wasn’t as open about it as Bobby was, she’d be in a position to lock him up. No, he needed the distance to be safe. He needed to be somewhere _bigger_ where there wouldn’t be so many eyes on him specifically. That was never going to happen in his home town, so he moved.

He started in Phoenix. It was hot as balls and not at all what he was used to (he never thought he’d miss the color _green_ so damn much), but they needed the manpower and they fast tracked this application. For the first time ever, he got himself his own place and was completely responsible for taking care of himself.

It was that little piece of freedom Dean had always dreamed of.

Almost. It wasn’t like he was going to stop here. It was a stepping stone, and nothing more.

Dean quickly rose through the ranks. He was actually a really good detective because he could really get into the heads of the killers. Early on, he cracked a case for a suspected serial killer in Phoenix. He was the only one to pick up on the subtle clues, read the obvious lies from one of the minor suspects, and solve the case only seventy-two hours after being placed on it.

They said he had a knack for it.

It was apparently easier to assume he was intuitive rather than think it was because he had something in common with the killers he tracked. That was perfectly fine by Dean. All he had to do was not talk too much about how he admired the killers—their work, the way they were able to hide themselves and blend in so completely, how they actually went after what they wanted—and he was in the clear.

 

**Step Two: Hurt someone. A lot.**

Once Dean settled into the routine of “good detective,” he felt safe enough to start working on phase of his plan.

Tae Kwon Do wasn’t as satisfying as it’d been in his youth. It was alright, and it certainly helped temper the craving for more, yet there was always a part of him itching to get out there and really cut into someone. Or shoot them. Or just hit them until his hand ached, knuckles raw and bloody.

He tested the waters slowly. A few more dangerous suspects, he roughed them up a lot more than he needed to. No one batted an eye. Dean got comfortable with that, and then let things escalate from there.

After a call for domestic abuse, Dean and his partner got called in. Cases like this, Dean usually had free range to manhandle, shove, bruise, or otherwise hurt the suspects. No one cared if some piece of shit guy who’d been beating his girlfriend arrived at the precinct with a black eye. It wasn’t much, but it was something to look forward to as Dean turned on the siren and headed out.

And then the guy pointed a gun on Dean, and all bets were off.

Call it self preservation, but Dean didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger of his own gun. After the hours he’d put in on the gun range, of course he hit the guy right in the heart. There were screams and his partner radioing it in, and Dean just stood there, watching the blood spread across the tile floor.

 

**Step Three: Pass psych evaluations.**

Right after it first happened, Dean was a little shellshocked. Years of his life had been spent waiting for this opportunity, and now that it was here, now that he’d _finally_ taken a life, he didn’t know how to react.

It was probably for the best. Any incident where an officer shoots someone is investigated. There are therapists and reports and all this other nonsense that keep Dean behind a desk for a few months. He learned pretty quickly that his little break from reality the moments after he shot worked in his favor. It made it more real when he told the therapists how haunted he was.

It also didn’t hurt that he _was_ haunted by it, every minute of every day. Not by the burden of taking a life. He didn’t care about that, not in general and certainly not in the specifics of some asshole threatening to shoot his own wife and kids over some bullshit argument about the dishes. No, he was haunted by how _good_ it had felt to pull the trigger, to see the splatter of blood, to watch as the light faded out of that man’s eyes and his gagging last breaths calmed to nothing but silence.

He was haunted by the need to do it again.

 

**Step Four: Repeat steps two and three. As often as possible.**

Dean’s service became filled with “questionable decisions.” All of them held up under scrutiny, Dean made sure of that, but there were an alarming number of times he’d shot and killed dangerous suspects. Each investigation turned up nothing, each round of psych evaluations showed that he was adequately remorseful and blah blah blah. At this point Dean went through those sessions on autopilot, reciting from a carefully practiced script.

It didn’t hurt that Dean was selective. He made his own set of rules on when it was okay to kill someone.

Violent criminals? Check. Men were better, especially big, intimidating ones.

Acting in self-defense? Check. If they had a visible weapon, they were basically _begging_ for Dean to pull the trigger. One time, he’d even managed to goad some idiot with a knife into attacking him.

Lack of witnesses? Harder to pull off, but not impossible and definitely preferred. Dean was always pretty fast, and if a suspect fled, he could normally catch up before any of the other cops on the scene. If he opened fire, who was to say he hadn’t felt threatened?

His personal favorite was when perps were let out on bail, or maybe even got let off on some technicality. Mishandled evidence or bad testimony from the arresting officer had a way of doing that, and Dean easily orchestrated both. While the thrill of circumstances lining up perfectly while on the job was nice, it wasn’t worth the annoyance of dealing with the therapists afterward.

Besides, there was something to be said for the fun of hunting people down when they thought they were safe. Breaking into their homes, getting to use his knives instead of his gun. Really get his hands dirty in ways he never could if his co-workers were on his back. He even enjoyed the clean up involved afterwards. It was like a puzzle, figuring out how to get his fingerprints and hair and all that out of there.

Not that the cops ever looked too closely. Dean went after drug dealers and gang members. People with plenty of enemies. Lots of other people to point fingers at other than one of their own.

So while his professional kill count hovered at five, his off the books kill count was nearing a dozen.

As careful as he was, he didn’t want to get cocky. There was only so much Dean could get away with in one city. Whenever he felt he was gaining a reputation for himself, he’d ask for a transfer or move out of state. His supervisors, despite having nothing but good things to say about him, always seemed a little relieved to see him go. They gave him stellar recommendations, made calls for him, and did their best to place him far away from their jurisdiction.

Even if they felt like they were passing on a problem to someone else, Dean really was a good cop. Aside from a few… _incidents_ , he was a model officer. He didn’t take a lot of days off, he was polite and courteous to the other staff, he took any cases assigned him without complaint, and moreover he _solved_ pretty much every case he was given. Even the paperwork and bureaucracy that bored other officers was nothing to Dean. He’d faked his way through so much already, there was no reason he couldn’t pretend with that as well.

It wasn’t as if Dean’s background was a secret, anyway. His history on the force was completely available to any precinct that hired him. New cities knew all about the shootings and the disciplinary actions taken against him. But every time, the good outweighed the bad and they hired him.

He moved from Phoenix to Dallas to Austin to Richmond to Baltimore. In each city, he stuck to his plan: steps two and three, over and over and over again.

 

**Step Five: Find the boy in the fire.**

Dean hadn’t given up on finding the boy in the fire. And as he got older, he started to realize more and more what he really wanted to do when he found him.

Too many of the men and women he fucked had dark hair. Too many times had he gotten lost in blue eyes. Never the right shade, of that he was certain, but sometimes they were close enough. Too many times had he woken up from dreams of fire and blood, hard and aching and desperate for someone to pin him down and fuck him senseless.

He was in love with the boy who’d killed his parents.

No, that wasn’t right. That would imply he cared that he’d killed Dean’s parents. He wasn’t angry or holding a grudge or anything like that. Quite the opposite, really.

He was in love with the boy who’d set him free.

Dean liked his life. The job, the support he got from Bobby, and the lifestyle he got to live. Bobby hinted that John Winchester was like Sam and Dean, but from what Dean had pieced together about his dad, he’d kept himself in check. He hadn’t given in to the urges that Dean indulged regularly. If he’d seen Dean going down the same path, he’d have diverted Dean into the cookie cutter life he’d made for himself.

No martial arts.. No career as a cop. No murders.

By killing John and Mary, the boy in the fire had put Dean on a path where he could be himself. More than anything, Dean wanted to meet the boy and _thank_ him.

If only he could _find_ him.

He’d long ago filled up his notebook. Now it was a whole series, filled with sketches and newspaper clippings and notes about Enochian. At least he’d made _some_ progress, narrowing down the mysterious letters as Enochian and even identifying some of the other symbols. Not that it really helped him figure out the identity of the boy in the fire.

Over the years, Dean spent countless evenings combing through online newspapers for any story about unusual fires. Even regular fires, so long as they reminded Dean of his family. Home fires, ones where people died. He didn’t have much else to go on besides that; it was a matter of following his gut.

In the twenty odd years he’d been looking, he could find fifteen fires he was confident were the work of the boy in the fire. He had a map hidden away, one where he’d marked all the locations. Still, there were no clues. He couldn’t find a connection between the victims (who never knew each other and who varied in profession, age, and even the _number_ present) or the locations (which ranged all over the continent) or even the frequency (sometimes it was one a year, sometimes a few, and sometimes there was a year or two with none).

As good a detective as Dean had become, he couldn’t crack this case.

It didn’t help that he wasn’t able to investigate it like his own cases. He couldn’t go to the sites, couldn’t poke around the burned ruins of homes, couldn’t interview people. It was all done from his home, whatever the reporters _happened_ to think was worth mentioning.

Sam thought Dean was wasting his time. They didn’t talk about it much, but occasionally Sam would ask for an update. Sam wasn’t really invested and definitely didn’t understand Dean’s obsession with the guy, and Dean was starting to think his brother only asked to make conversation. Same way he asked Sam about how he liked the weather in California or how his latest clients were doing; no real investment or interest, just mild curiosity.

Even so, Sam would forward him weird arson cases he came across in the paper. They almost never fit the profile Dean was looking for, but he appreciated the effort.

The longer things went on without a proper lead, the more Dean lost faith that he’d be able to find him. Hope only took him so far. Maybe the boy had already been caught, or he’d found the lifestyle too risky and given it up. Maybe that night in Lawrence was just a fluke and he hadn’t had a taste for killing the way Dean did. There were so many possibilities, and it ate Dean up inside to think he’d never see him again. He could be deluding himself into seeing things that weren’t there whenever he printed out a new article and added it to his collection.

All he could do was keep looking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm 90% certain that Bobby convinced Sam to become a criminal lawyer because he was worried Dean would need one at some point... And Sam went along with it because it'd make him money and give him the type of power/control he craves over people (but more on that later :P).


	3. A Lucky Break

**** Dean turned thirty. Which didn’t really matter, truth be told. Hitting the big “three oh” was no more momentous to Dean than when he’d turned twenty-nine and he suspected he wouldn’t much care care when he hit thirty-one, either. The only reason it bothered him was that it meant something else.

He’d spent two decades knowing about the boy from the fire, and unable to find him. 

Hope was one thing, but facing the sheer unlikelihood that their paths would ever cross again had Dean frustrated, angry, and damn near sloppy. After getting in a bar fight because he was bored, drunk, and a little too restless, Dean had nearly pulled his gun on the asshat who’d been dumb enough to get into a fight he couldn’t handle. 

Worse, he almost hadn’t been able to stop himself after that first punch, barely even satisfying his darker impulses. Last thing he needed was to get taken in for drunk and disorderly conduct. Even as a cop, he’d get in more trouble than he actually wanted to deal with. His lifestyle depended on that fine line between being a low profile, upstanding member of the force and being an outstanding detective known for solving cases. Being thrown in the drunk tank didn’t help with either extreme.

He tried throwing himself back into his search, but he couldn’t simply  _ will _ a lead into existence. So he locked his notes in his desk and decided to work on finding another kill. There was an alleged gang leader up for parole. Azazel was put away for some drug connections, but they’d never been able to prove his gang ties. Maybe that would pan out, an easy in and out that might even put some collateral damage in the way. The biggest kill count he’d gotten in one outing was three, and that was under similar circumstances. 

Unfortunately Azazel did not make parole. He tried to strangle a guard and that was pretty much all she wrote, which put Dean right back at square one.

Fuck.

Then a thought occurred to him. Maybe he didn’t need to find the boy from the fire… Maybe he could get  _ him _ to find Dean.

What if he could mimic the wings and fire? Surely that would catch the boy’s attention. Then he’d be on the lookout for Dean. They could find  _ each other _ .

It was a crazy idea, but Dean was desperate enough to give it a try. 

He practiced painting wings on big pieces of canvas, using his hands in the red paint to try and get a feel for it. He even dabbled in using real blood. It was only animal blood from the butcher, unfortunately, but he figured it was close enough; he couldn’t afford the unnecessary risk of finding a victim just for the sake of bleeding them dry. It took weeks for him to think he was passable at it, but eventually it was a fair representation of the wings he’d seen as a kid. 

The only thing he couldn’t figure out was the fire. How could he make a fire burn so quickly and so hot? But not so quickly that it got out of control before he got out of there? If he fucked that up, that’d become a big problem real fast.

It took him five barely contained fires in his backyard for Dean to realize he was being stupid. He didn’t  _ need _ to replicate the fire. The bloody wings and symbols found at the scene of a gruesome murder might actually make national news. People were terrified but entranced by that sort of thing; they’d hear about it and spread it like crazy. If he burned it all down, barely anyone would hear about it and no one save one or two other people would even  _ know _ about the wings.

A perfectly copied crime would be a love letter to the boy in the fire, but it’d be one he’d probably never get. A half-copied attempt might actually get the guy’s attention.

More excited than he’d been about his hunt in years, Dean started plotting out who the perfect victims would be…

~ ~ ~

Dean was pretending to give a shit about some case file Victor had dropped off earlier. The other detective didn’t really see eye to eye with Dean—in all his years on the force, Victor was the only one Dean was even remotely worried about figuring out what he was—but he’d grudgingly had to admit Dean was a decent cop. He was stuck at a dead end with some kidnapping case and had practically begged for Dean’s help.

If he thought he could get away with refusing, he would have out of spite. Unfortunately it paid off to play nice, so he’d agreed to take a look.

Not a very careful look, but still a look. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do at the moment, anyway.

“Heya Dean!”

“Hi Garth,” Dean said without looking up. He and Garth had been partners ever since Dean had moved to Baltimore a couple years ago. Despite the peppy attitude, Garth was a halfway decent detective. Considering the other dickbags who worked in the city, Dean counted himself lucky he’d gotten Garth.

“We gotta head out. Looks like we’ve got a new case!”

“Thank fuck.” Dean tossed Victor’s file back onto his desk and hopped up. “I’m driving. You can fill me in on the way.”

“Okie dokie!”

As soon as they’d pulled out onto the road, Garth started babbling about the case. “So there was a fire out in the nice part of Belair. They’ve got some fancy sprinkler system, so it contacted the fire department when it went off. Fire department shows up, breaks in, and turns out it’s not just a fire… it’s a double homicide! Some wealthy couple got killed in their own home, and the fire was probably started to try and cover it up. But guess what? That ain’t even the most interesting part!”

That was another thing that made Garth a halfway decent partner: he got as excited about unique murders as Dean did.   

“I dunno, man. Failed arson and double homicide? Sounds interesting enough already.” Dean was only half listening as it was, too busy making sure he didn’t drive down a one way street by mistake. 

“That’s what I thought! But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Turns out there are some weird designs painted all over the kitchen next to the bodies.”

Dean’s foot twitched on the gas pedal and the car lurched a bit. “What…” His mouth was incredibly dry and he swallowed to try and make his tongue work. “What kind of designs?”

Garth smiled, as if he’d been hoping Dean would ask. “Weird symbols, though I think we’ll have to see it to know what the heck  _ that _ means, and here’s the real kicker…” He paused for dramatic effect. “ _ Wings _ ! Like angel wings or something, drawn on the ground beneath the vics. Ain’t that something?”

“Yeah… that’s uh… that’s something alright.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d heard of an arson/homicide case. They used to make him excited with possibility, but they were always disappointments. Now when he heard the two together, Dean didn’t even consider that it might be  _ him _ . Now, with the details of the case sounding too good to be true, Dean knew what he  _ wanted _ to find when they got there, but he still didn’t dare hope.

When had he ever been that lucky?

By the time they arrived on the scene, Dean was completely on edge. They walked around the police tape, dodged some firefighters on the way inside, and ended up in a smoke stained living room. The fire had died out before it’d done any real damage to the house. The furniture and decorations were ruined for sure, but that was it.

Boring. Garth ducked inside to take a better look, but Dean gave a cursory glance and that was it. If Garth asked about it, he’d say he was waiting for the fire chief’s report. What did he know about fires? Let the experts handle it.

Garth hadn’t mentioned where the bodies were found, so Dean wandered off on his own If he had to guess based on the boy in the fire’s MO, they’d be on this floor and somewhere without any carpets. He poked his head into a carpeted office and then an overstuffed dining room, which left the kitchen.

Dean had heard enough from Garth to know what to expect, but that didn’t prepare him for actually  _ seeing _ it. The bloody couple on the floor was indeed as gruesome as he’d expected—even a cursory glance told him there were multiple stab wounds on each of them—but what immediately caught his attention were the wings. Large, intricate wings painted in blood beneath them both, stretching clear across the room. They were exquisite, more detailed and beautiful than the ones he remembered as a boy, but certainly the same.

Leaning down to take a closer look, Dean held back on the urge to touch the delicate strokes.

“So whaddya think?” Garth asked, way too chipper for a murder scene. He stood behind Dean and waited 

Dean didn’t even spare a glance at his partner, instead focusing on memorizing every detail so he could recreate it in his sketchbook later. How had he even kidded himself into thinking he could reproduce this?

“Two victims, obviously stabbed to death. Multiple incisions… we’ll have to wait ‘til the coroner’s report to know which wound killed them or if they bled out. Suspect set the fire to hide the evidence… and the fire didn’t take. Seems pretty straightforward.”

So straightforward there was no way he could lie about it to throw the other cops off the scent. At least not without looking grossly incompetent.

“Mmm,” Garth said thoughtfully. “Whatcha thinking for the motive?”

_ I wish I knew… But I like to think it’s the same as mine… To see that look of fear in people’s eyes, that first spurt of blood, and the absolute joy of watching someone draw their last breath. _

“Depends... Anything stolen? Anyone got an axe to grind with them?”

“No clue.” He helped pull Dean back to his feet and took out his notebook to jot stuff down. “We’ll have to look into that… Check with the neighbors… family… friends… coworkers…” Garth’s pen scratched across the paper as he wrote.

“You don’t need to write that down, Garth. It’s the same as any homicide.”

“Huh? Oh, I know. But I like checking them off after we go.” His wide smile as he flipped the page was kind of endearing. “So burglary gone wrong or some sort of revenge…” He looked up at Dean and frowned. “No other ideas?”

“Not really?”  _ None I want to share. _ “You?”

“Well, it’s just the wings and stuff seems too… ritualistic. For an average homicide I mean. Why bother taking the time to do it if you’re a burglar or it’s some crime of passion?”

“Cult?”

“Oh!” Garth perked up. “That’d be a new one. We should definitely keep our eyes open for that!”

“Will do.” 

_ Except I’ve looked up every cult and religious group that might be associated with these wings and the symbols… Though I don’t mind you wasting your time on that while I find the real killer. _

_ Finally. _

“Hey,” Dean said as he noticed the sprinkler system was here too. “How come these didn’t go off?”

“Maybe it’s a system where they only go off in the room where there’s fire? Honestly I don’t know. We put in a home security system but sprinklers were way too expensive, even for the crappy ones. Didn’t look too much into it.”

_ Shit _ .

“... They have security cameras or anything here?” Dean dreaded this answer; if there were and they caught the boy in the fire, there wasn’t much Dean could do to help him.

“Nope. Didn’t look like it when I checked earlier. Looks like we’re doing this the ol’ fashioned way.” Garth clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly. “Let’s get cracking!” 

The rest of the evening was spent cataloguing evidence, interviewing neighbors as potential witnesses, and going through the couple’s ID and contacts. Apparently the victims were one Mildred and Arthur Baker. Arthur was a retired professor and Mildred worked at one of the local art galleries. 

Dean was able to fall into detective mode until his shift ended. After years of practice at compartmentalizing who he was, he fell back into the guise of good cop easily. But as soon as he was safely in his car and headed home, Dean just about lost his goddamn mind.

The weight of it truly hit him like a ton of bricks because  _ this was it _ . This was  _ him _ . 

He didn’t remember the drive home and he sure as fuck didn’t remember parking his car and getting inside. His thoughts were a whirlwind, his skin was electrified, and arousal buzzed through him. Dean didn’t make it past the entryway, collapsing against his front door as he scrambled to pull out his cock and stroke himself. He jerked off imagining the dark-haired boy and blue eyes and a world painted red.

It wasn’t enough.

As much as he tried to go through his nightly routine, as much as he  _ wanted  _ to sit down and add to his notebook, he was too worked up. His cock was hard, begging for attention again already. After ruining three perfectly good sheets in his sketchbook, he figured he might as well work it out of his system. 

He walked to a bar, bought drinks for the first person with blue eyes he found, and ended up fucking her in the alley outside. It helped, at least a little. Exhausted, he stumbled back home and was actually able to pass out.

~ ~ ~

Sunlight woke him up well ahead of his alarm, but there was no going back to sleep. Dean had work to do.

“Dean?” Sam asked when he answered the phone.

“Got good news, Sammy,” Dean said, holding the phone was his shoulder so his hands were free to work. There were so many details he had to write down, so many new clues, and a few new symbols to add to his notes.

“What?” Sam snorted. “You find your mystery guy? You know it’s five am here, right? So unless this is important—”

“Sorry, forgot. But yeah, it’s important. And yeah I know you’re just dicking around, but I  _ did _ find him.”

There was silence over the line. “Oh. That’s actually pretty cool, I guess. I mean, I don’t get why you’re so into the guy, but the fact that you actually  _ found _ him is awesome. Talk about a needle in a haystack… How’d you find him? What’s he like?”

“Well…” Dean deflated a bit. “I didn’t find him in person yet, but he’s here in Baltimore. Or at least he was as of last night. Shit, what if he’s fled town. Never narrowed down where he actually lives—”

“Focus. How’d you know he was in town?”

“Fire and double homicide. Fucked up the fire, though. Sprinkler system cut if off before it could do its work. All the other times I thought I was looking at his work, this time I _ know _ . I saw the wings first hand. Fucking beautiful, man. Should be in a museum for fuck’s sake. Even better than the ones he made for Mom and Dad. Dude’s had practice.”

“Huh. You guys take pictures?”

“Yeah of course. What kind of backass operation you think we run here? Got pictures of the whole crime scene. Why?”

“Could you send them to me? I’m kinda curious.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile. For  _ years _ he’d tried to get Sam involved in the search, but all Sam ever did was humor him. He’d never  _ once _ asked to see Dean’s work, aside from that first time he’d looked over Dean’s shoulder as he sketched, so him asking for pictures was a huge step. 

“Course, Sammy.”

“Cool, thanks.” There was some banging around on the other side of the line, and Dean suspected Sam was in his kitchen making breakfast. “So assuming you find him, what are you going to do? You gonna kill him?”

“What? No! Why would I kill him?”

He could hear Sam’s shrug. “I don’t know. What else would you want to do with him? And isn’t that what people do when they track down the guy who killed their parents? Kill them? Revenge or something?”

“But I’m not even angry about the thing with Mom and Dad. Living with Bobby probably worked out way better for us in the end. You think Mom and Dad would’ve been okay with me being a cop who freelances in killing people? And you being a lawyer who does… whatever the fuck it is you do in that dungeon? Didn’t Bobby help you build that thing?”

“He helped with the soundproofing, yeah. I don’t really remember Mom and Dad all that much, but probably not. At least not Mom. She freaked out that one time I pushed that one kid down the stairs at daycare.  _ That _ I remember.”

“I should hope so. Kid had to go to the hospital or something. Mom was pissed because you refused to apologize because you ‘weren’t sorry’ and he ‘deserved it.’ Actually kind of hilarious, looking back.”

“Uh huh.” The sound of a blender interrupted them and Dean waited patiently while his brother made one of his weird veggie smoothies. It gave him a chance to finish jotting down the new symbols, carefully adding them to the master list he kept. “So if you aren’t going to kill him,” Sam continued after the blender had died down, “what  _ are _ you going to do with him?”

Dean hadn’t been sure until last night, but now it was abundantly clear what he really wanted. Given his dating history and a couple of his more…  _ elaborate _ fantasies, it wasn’t much of a surprise.

“I’m going to fuck him.”

“...  _ What?” _

There wasn’t a whole lot that could get that incredulous tone out of Sam. Dean chuckled to himself. “You heard me. I’m going to find him, tie him to my bed, and fuck him senseless.”

Shit, he was starting to make himself hard just thinking about it…

“... Not what I expected, but okay. Good luck finding your murder buddy and fucking him, I guess. Try not to get killed or caught or anything.”

“Thanks for the support,” Dean mumbled with an eye roll. 

“I  _ am _ being supportive. I— Did I not do that right?”

Sam often struggled with projecting the right tone, especially when it came to things like sincerity. Dean was used to it, probably because he wasn’t great at it either, but he knew it’d caused issues for Sam in the past. At least as a lawyer, being emotionless often worked in his favor.

“Nah, it was pretty close. A little flat at the end, but the rest was good.”

“Okay, good. Seriously though, I’m glad you found him. I know you get lonely, so it might be nice to have someone around who’s like us. Assuming he doesn’t try to kill you or something.”

“He’s not going to try and kill me.”

“Right. Because murderers just  _ love _ making friends with cops.”

“Sam, I’m in a really good mood right now. Do  _ not _ rain on my parade. Go drink your vegan crap and do yoga or something. I gotta get ready for work in a bit.”

“It’s not vegan crap,” Sam huffed indignantly. “It’s this—”

Dean hung up before his brother could talk his ear off about super foods or whatever nonsense food craze he was into this month. Besides, he had a long ways to go tracking down the boy in the fire before he went to work and had to pretend to do his job.


	4. The Brothers Novak

By the time Dean showed up for his shift, there were already a list of people to bring in for questioning about the Baker murders. Mostly friends and coworkers since they had no family to speak of, and Dean looked over the names wondering if one of them belonged to the boy in the fire.

He really hoped it did, but he knew he’d have to start making backup plans. While he went through the routine of questioning these men and women, he’d have to do his own investigation. Buses out of town, trains, flights… anything that was scheduled to leave between the time of the fire and now. Dean had the benefit of knowing exactly who he was looking for, so all he needed to do was go through security video. It’d be a pain in the ass, and it surely wouldn’t cover all the bases (there was nothing Dean would be able to do if the man simply _drove_ away), but it was _something_.

Together he and Garth divied up the list of people and went about scheduling interviews. They started with phone calls and brief in person meetings, and from there they’d figure out who they actually needed to bring into the precinct. Garth took over the work acquaintances while Dean worked his way through their friends. Nothing was more disappointing than knocking on someone’s door and having a complete stranger open it.

 _You only met once,_ he reminded himself. **_Sam_ ** _spoke to him more than you did. He’s still basically a stranger._

 _No he’s not,_ part of him insisted. _He’s so much more than that._

Days went by without a break. No one was the least bit suspicious and most if not everyone had an alibi. Dean’s personal search wasn’t going any better. After going through hours of footage, he’d found no signs of dark-haired men that fit what he remembered. It was a million times worse to be _working_ one of the crime scenes and not able to make any more progress than with the ones he’d only ever read about.

“Well, I’ve got nothing,” Dean grumbled as he plopped down in his desk chair. “Friends are all squeaky clean and super boring. I can usually get a read on if someone’s lying, but these guys are all annoyingly truthful. Old people, ugh.”

“I haven’t gotten much either,” Garth said with a sigh. “I do have a few coworkers who insisted on having a lawyer present when they answered questions, so they’ll be coming into the precinct later today. If you’re done with your list, mind helping me with these?”

“May as well. Lemme see who you got…”

Garth handed him the list of coworkers along with their lawyers. Dean recognized most of the names, lawyers he’d come across in court or with other witnesses turned suspects, but only one jumped out at him.

Gabriel Novak. He’d been taking high profile cases around Baltimore long before Dean had settled in here. Pretty decent lawyer, though he usually worked with prosecution rather than defense. The guy had a thing about making sure people got their ‘just desserts’ or whatever. Half the time he was all smiles and jokes, and then in the courtroom he was kind of terrifying. Dean had always admired that about him, the way he could switch it on and off, and secretly hoped Sam would learn to do the same.

But that wasn’t what Dean found interesting, not about

“I didn’t know Novak had a brother.”

“Huh?” Garth leaned over and took a look. Dean held up the list, pointing to the line that read _C. Novak, Museum Acquisitions — Lawyer G. Novak._ “Oh, I didn’t even notice they had the same last name. I just jotted it down and set up a time. Why, you interested in taking that one?”

“Yeah right,” he snorted. Gabe might be scary in court, but he was an excited puppy in real life. No way a guy like that had a brother who was a killer. “I’ll take these first three, you take the last four, okay?”

“Sure thing! First interview’s at ten.”

“Great.”

Dean interviewed a Sarah Blake who’d worked as Mildred’s personal assistant for the past few years. Dean didn’t pay much attention to her answers, just rattled off the usual questions and took the few notes he needed to. The most she’d be able to offer was a possible suspect, someone who maybe didn’t like the Bakers. Once she explained that they were both well liked and Mildred didn’t have more than a few workplace disagreements with people, it became a waste of Dean’s time. He thanked her for her time and ushered her out.

“Anything else you remember that you think might be useful, you let us know, alright Ms. Blake?” Dean handed her a card with his direct line.

“Sure thing, detective. The only thing I can think that might be helpful is getting you a copy of the shift schedule that day. If you think someone who works at the museum might be involved, it might be helpful to know who was working and who wasn’t.”

“That’d be great. Fax number’s right on there, or you could email me a copy. You can always contact my partner Detective Fitzgerald as well.”

He gave a smile that was completely fake but at least half passable and watched her leave the precinct. Someone coming in held the door open for her, and then a man strode through the doors.

Dean’s breath caught in his throat. He swore he could smell smoke, could practically _choke_ on it, that he could feel the flames licking at his heels. It was hot, so damn hot, and he pulled at his collar to try and let in more air. He could smell blood, thick and metallic; he hadn’t even noticed the smell back home in Kansas, but now he got huge lungfuls of it.

In walked the boy from the fire, but right before his eyes Dean saw him grow half a foot. His shoulders were broader, his facial features more cut and defined, and at least a day’s worth of stubble. He looked like a Greek god, a marble statue come to life, and here he was back in Dean’s life.

The only thing that hadn’t changed were the messy hair and the eyes, those beautiful eyes Dean had done his best to recreate in his sketchbooks. He thought he’d done a good job, but seeing them up close again, Dean knew he’d never be able to capture that shade of blue or the depths hiding beneath the surface. God he wanted to drown in those eyes…

Then the scene shattered. He was no longer a child in his family home, watching a murderer stand over his dead parents as their house burned down. He was back at the precinct, and the gears turned inside his head at rapid speed.

Any doubts he might have had, any lingering fears that he’d been wrong or that he’d made a mistake, that he’d wasted his life waiting for this moment, it all disappeared. In that instant, Dean had never been more certain about anything in his entire life: this man killed his parents, and Dean was completely head over heels in love with him.

Before a plan had fully formed, he was sprinting back to his and Garth’s desks.

“Garth!” he barked as he towered over where the other man was typing away at his computer.

“Yep?” Garth didn’t even bother looking up, his eyes too busy looking at the keyboard as he slowly poked key after key.

“I’m taking the Novak interview,” Dean demanded.

“Okie doke.” Then Garth finally looked up and frowned. “Wait, why?”

It was a testament to how rattled Dean was that he blurted out a halfway honest answer. “Dude’s hot.”

Garth’s eyes went wide. “So if I understand this correctly, you want to interview a potential murder suspect because you think he’s hot?”

“First of all, he’s not a real suspect.” _Definitely not a suspect yet, anyway. I need to meet him **and** I need to make sure he doesn’t say anything stupid. _ “This is just due diligence. And second of all, I don’t think you understand _how_ hot this guy is. This is ‘ignore possible murder charges’ hot, okay?”

He looked over and saw the Novaks heading straight for Garth’s desk.

“Please man,” Dean begged. “You owe me for introducing you to Bess way back when. Just do me this one favor—”

The brothers were within earshot, so he cut himself off and forced his face into what he hoped was a neutral expression.

“Detective Fitzgerald,” Gabe said as he offered his hand. Garth immediately stood up to take it, shaking with far too much enthusiasm until Gabe pulled his hand back and rubbed it off on his suit. “This is my client slash overly cautious younger brother, Castiel Novak.”

“Detective.” Castiel nodded but did not offer his hand, probably attempting to avoid having his arm shaken off. “I’m here for the interview about what happened to Mildred and her husband.”

“Right on time!” Garth beamed and clapped his hands together. “Though there’s a slight change in plans. Something’s come up I gotta handle, so my partner Dean’s going to take over the interview. Ain’t that right, Dean?”

Dean felt an indescribable amount of relief flood through him, but then curious blue eyes were turned on him and Dean’s heart skipped a few beats. “Yeah, that’s uh… that’s right.”

“Fine with us,” Gabe said. “Lead the way to Interrogation Room B or whatever so we can get this show in the road. I’ve gotta be in DC this evening, and I’m not getting stuck on the beltway because of this.”

Garth nudged Dean. He jumped, finally looking away from Castiel, before recovering enough to head off towards the interrogation rooms. He could _feel_ the intensity of Castiel’s gaze on him with every step, and he pleaded with his dick to fucking behave. Apparently all his dick had heard was _Castiel_ and _interrogation room_ and had neglected the part where they’d be accompanied by Castiel’s brother.

Chewing the inside of his lip to dispel the fantasies warring for his intention, he opened the door and let the Novak brothers head in first to get settled.

 _Calm the fuck down,_ he scolded himself. _Do your fucking job, make sure you don’t write down anything incriminating, and **then** figure out how you’re going to get him alone. _

He could be professional for the next hour. He _would_ be. Besides, he had all night to imagine all the ways he could’ve ‘interrogated’ Castiel.

Dean took a seat across the table from Castiel and Gabriel. There were already Garth’s notes and case files waiting for him, along with a pad of paper with the questions he’d prepared to ask. Good, that gave Dean something to focus on until he’d fully recovered from the effect of seeing Castiel up close.

_Seeing him, looking him in the eye, fucking knowing his name—_

He harshly cut off the errant thought.

This was going to be rough interview.

“Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Novak. I’m going to ask you a few questions related to Mr. and Mrs. Baker. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

Disinterested eyes looked back at him, and Dean’s confidence wavered. Did Castiel not recognize him, or was he merely playing a part?

“Of course. How can I help?”

Dean had _not_ counted on the effect that voice would have on him, especially paired with those gorgeous eyes. He did his best not to fidget in his seat. For all it seemed, _he_ was the one being grilled.

Thankfully his own voice was steady as he spoke. “Tell me about yourself. How you know the victims, how often you see them, stuff like that.”

“I work at the Walters Art Gallery with Mildred. She was curator of the modern art wing, and I work in acquisitions. Though I specialize in Renaissance paintings and dabble in Classical antiquities and Medieval tomes, I work with all the curators at the museum to help find new pieces for their exhibits. I also help orchestrate exchanges with other museums and art galleries.

“Because of that, I’ve worked closely with Mildred for some time now. Perhaps ten years, if I’m not mistaken? I know her husband through her, but not very well. We’d met a few times, but probably hadn’t had more than a handful of conversations together, and most of them admittedly revolved around art.”

A suspicion niggled at the back of Dean’s mind, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “You an artist yourself, Mr. Novak?”

Castiel startled a little bit, tilting his head to the side and squinting at Dean. “I’m not sure how that’s relevant to the case, but yes, I enjoy painting on occasion.”

Dean felt like a complete idiot for not realizing it before, but it seemed obvious now. Castiel spent probably _hours_ at each crime scene painting wings onto the floor. He perfectly attended to each feather and the accompanying symbols. Dean had spent his fair share of time drawing and sketching, but he’d fallen well short of Castiel’s abilities.

How could Castiel _not_ be an artist?

“Just curious,” Dean said with a shrug. “So you and Mildred got along alright?”

“I suppose. We had our ups and downs, but the same could be said about my relationship with the other curators. We’re all on friendly terms most of the time, but we have different areas of focus and different ideas for what we’d like the gallery to display. I’d like to see our budget put in areas that they sometimes don’t, and it’s a constant negotiation. We’re all very passionate people, at least when it comes to art, and sometimes tempers rise.”

“You hold a grudge against Mildred for any of these arguments? Or did anyone else?”

Cas shook his head. “I can’t speak for everyone, but I certainly didn’t. We all have different artistic tastes and preferences, and that’s what makes us valuable together. If we all liked the same thing, the exhibits would fall flat and the gallery would suffer. I didn’t always agree with Mildred, but I respected her opinion. Though she was a lot better about not holding me personally responsible if a deal went through. She was very kind.”

Castiel sighed sadly, gaze flickering down in an almost genuine display of emotion. If Dean didn't know better, absolutely  _know_ , he'd have bought into it.

Damn. The guy was good.

“You two ever hang out outside of work?”

“Not often, but yes. She’d invited me to her holiday party for several years now, and I make sure she’s invited out for happy hour with the younger staff members.”

“So you’ve been to her house?”

“Yes.”

“You know anything about their expensive sprinkler system? Why’d they invest the money in that but not have any cameras?”

There was a brief flash of annoyance that crossed Castiel’s face when dean mentioned the sprinklers, but it was gone too quickly for Dean’s liking. Damn if Castiel didn’t look even more attractive when he was angry…  

“I could only speculate—”

“Speculate away.”

“Why, though?” Gabe interrupted. “My client’s explained he wasn’t close with the victims beyond his professional relationship with Mrs. Baker. I doubt he could offer any insight—”

“It’s fine, Gabriel.” Castiel put up a hand to silence his brother. “The detective’s merely trying to understand the Bakers better, and I’m happy to offer what little I can.”

Gabriel didn’t look at all appeased by Castiel’s assurance and looked about to object. He shot a look at Dean while carefully debating what to say. When their eyes met, Dean silently willed him to understand: there was no one in this precinct more determined to protect Castiel’s identity than Dean was. After a brief staring match, Gabe shrugged. “Alright, kiddo. Have at it then.”

“Mildred and Arthur were well liked and well respected in the community. They were well off, but weren’t ostentatious about it. They probably didn’t see themselves as targets of foul play, so why waste the money on security features they’d never use?”

“Seems reasonable,” Dean agreed while he pretended to jot down some notes. Gabe was right, Castiel’s answers to these questions were irrelevant to the investigation. But Dean was very curious about this next part. “And the sprinklers then? Why bother with something like if they didn’t think arson was a problem?”

_Did you know it was there? Is that why you messed up and we even know it’s a murder and not just a fire that got out of hand?_

Castiel hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I doubt they were thinking of arson at all. Arthur smoked a pipe. Mildred liked to knit by the fire. They had a fire pit out back, or they did as of December’s holiday party. They were an older couple, so it seems reasonable that they’d take that sort of safety precaution.”

_So no, you didn’t know._

_And you’re annoyed you didn’t consider it._

“Alright then, next question…” He went through a few more, asking about Mildred’s work routine and any other insights Castiel might have. Castiel answered with very little interference from Gabriel. Not that it was really necessary. His answers were all to the point and completely devoid of any emotional investment.

That was kind of the problem.

Even if Dean didn’t know what he knew about Castiel, alarm bells would be going off. Castiel’s answers were borderline rehearsed, his tone too practiced, and his mannerisms too calm for someone who’d felt the need to bring in a lawyer to a routine questioning session. Honestly, it was too Sam-like for Dean’s tastes, and he worried what that might mean if the investigation leaned Castiel’s way.

He’d just have to make sure that didn’t happen.

If Garth were the one sitting here, he’d probably be making a note about just that. Luckily it was Dean and not Garth. He made sure to write down that Castiel seemed adequately shaken up about the whole thing, all while leaving out the things that might lead to further questions later on down the road.

“Sorry, I gotta ask… You got an alibi for the night of the eighteenth?” Dean smiled apologetically, but at the same time he couldn’t deny he was curious. After almost a decade of killing on his own, Dean knew a thing or two about deflecting attention, but Castiel was a master. He’d been doing this more than twice as long as Dean, and a big part of him was curious.

What kind of alibis did Castiel use? Would they hold up? Was it something specific to his own situation, or was it something Dean could adapt?

“Alas I have none,” Castiel sighed. “I left work some time after five, picked up dinner, then I was at home alone all evening. But the doorman at my building can confirm I didn’t leave.”

Dean nodded. It was almost too simple, which made it kind of perfect. “You got a name for the doorman or the building so I can double check that.”

“Of course. Mind if I…?” He motioned for the notepad and Dean tore him off a page and handed it over. Dean watched as Castiel scribbled out the information and slid the paper back across the table.

_God, even his handwriting is fucking gorgeous._

“Is there anything else, or am I free to go?”

“Just one last question…” Dean didn’t have a damn thing left to ask him. He’d gone through all of Garth’s questions and added a few of his own; they were done, and the longer Dean held him the more suspicious it’d be. But he didn’t want this to _end_. He’d waited twenty damn years for this, no way he wanted to let Castiel walk out those doors.

“Yes?” Castiel prompted when Dean didn’t immediately say anything.

Dean scrambled to find something to ask and went with the first thing he could think of. “What’s with the lawyer? I mean, I know it’s good practice, but people tend to think it’s suspicious… And you really didn’t have anything incriminating to say. Not that I thought you would or anything, but with the lawyer and all it makes a guy wonder...”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at Dean and even Gabriel gave him a curious look. Dean winced and shut up.

“As you said,” Castiel said slowly, “it’s good practice. Though I’ve done nothing wrong, I don’t want my words being misconstrued. And my brother was willing to donate his time.”

Gabe snorted at that. “More like you bribed me with homemade candies."

“Well,” Dean said as he stood up—anything to put this embarrassment of an interrogation behind him—and opened the door for them. “I’ll walk you out.”

Every footstep rung in Dean’s head like thunder, a warning that Castiel was about to leave. He _had_ to figure out a way to get Castiel alone. See if he recognized Dean and was just playing along. Castiel _had_ to feel their connection, and they only needed a chance to talk about it without Gabe hovering.

Right?

“Sorry to grill you in there,” he said for the sake of buying time.

“No worries,” Castiel said dismissively. “You were only doing your job.”

“Right.” This was _not_ going well. Fuck. What could he do to stall—

“Hey Gabe!” Garth appeared in front of them, blocking their path out. “I hope you don’t mind, but I got a question about one of your clients. Figured you could help me sort it out while you’re here.”

“Who’s it about?” Gabe asked suspiciously.

“Uriel—”

“Say no more. I wouldn’t mind billing that guy for another full hour while I ‘consult with the police.’ Lead the way.”

If they weren’t in the middle of the precinct, Dean could’ve kissed Garth. Not that the goofball knew how much Dean appreciated the help—

The way he winked at Dean as he put an arm around Gabe’s shoulders made it very clear that Garth knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

“I suppose I’ll be taking a taxi back to work,” Castiel muttered under his breath. “Thank you, detective. Please call me if you have any further questions.”

And then he was walking away.

“Wait!” Dean sprinted to catch up and then blocked Castiel’s path. “I uh… I really am sorry about it and I’d like to uh… I mean, if you’re interested, I’d like to maybe… take you out for coffee or drinks tonight? As an apology?”

He was such a fucking disaster. With the interrogation over, Dean had lost the _one thing_ that had made this encounter even remotely successful. Now that the distraction was gone, he was a babbling idiot.

At least he wasn’t hard anymore...

Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean. It felt like he was finally looking at Dean, _actually_ taking in the man before him for the first time since they’d met. Dean tried not to squirm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Is that a flirtation? Are you asking me on a date?”

“... Yes?”

“... It seems unwise to mix business with pleasure by going on a date with someone you questioned in relation to a murder.”

Dean shrugged. “Not like you’re a suspect or anything. Besides… I got a good sense for killers.” It was as much of a hint as Dean dared give in public, but he prayed Castiel would read between the lines.

The other man hesitated for a moment before giving a faint, almost smile. “Okay.”

“Really?” There was nothing he could do to temper the hope in his voice. Castiel had agreed to go on a date with him. Holy shit.

“Yes? … I don’t understand, do your romantic conquests tend to lead you on?”

“What? No! I’m just… You know what, never mind, I’m going to quit while I’m ahead. I’ll pick you up tonight?”

“Sure. I’ll be at the gallery until seven. I’ll meet you out front.”

“Awesome. I can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol i hope you all enjoyed dean geeking out over meeting his favorite serial killer in person ;)
> 
> come visit me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com) to talk destiel, murder husbands, or just about anything


	5. How to Date a Serial Killer

Garth teased him mercilessly about his crush on the dorky museum worker for the rest of his shift.

“He’s not…” Dean began to protest, but then reconsidered. The guy had worn a sweater vest and a trenchcoat and he worked at an art gallery. “He’s not _that_ dorky.”

“Uh huh.” Garth looked unconvinced. “It’s okay, Dean. Besides, you were right, he _is_ hot.”

He couldn’t quite help the grin that spread across his face. “He is, isn’t he?” Dean sighed happily.

_Though he’d look even better naked and covered in blood, my cock inside him and his arms bound. Maybe I could gag him…_

Honestly, Dean had no idea how he survived the rest of the afternoon. Every stray thought took him right back to Castiel and the fire. It was no use trying to get his work done, and Dean did his best to make it at least _look_ like he was being productive when all he wanted to do was get to the damn art gallery and corner Castiel in some dark corner.

It was agony waiting for his shift to end, but he survived. He still had a few hours before he could even reasonably go to pick up Castiel, so he headed home. Maybe he could look the guy up now that he had a name. Find out as much as he could about Castiel Novak and figure out the best way to approach

None of that happened, though. He typed ‘Castiel Novak’ into a search engine and got a little distracted. Hand on his cock, he jerked himself off as quickly as he could while staring at the twenty odd images that happened to come up. With a groan, he came all over himself and slumped down onto his desk.

“How the fuck am I supposed to survive a date with him?” he groaned and banged his head against the keyboard a few times. “I can’t even last five minutes alone without jerking off…”

_Maybe he’d be up for skipping the whole date scene and coming straight back here._

_Not fucking likely._

With a sigh, Dean pushed himself to his feet and went to clean himself up. A shower and a change of clothes were necessary, especially if he wanted to make a good impression. And damn if he didn’t want to make a good impression…

The shower didn’t help. Halfway through lathering himself up, Dean’s hands found their way to his half hard cock. He tried to resist the temptation, but there was nothing for it. He drew out another pathetic orgasm before grunting in disgust at himself.

As soon as he got into his bedroom, he spread out his damp towel over the bed, grabbed some lube and his favorite plug, and got to work. Clearly he needed to work off some of the nervous energy plaguing him, and maybe at least if he prepped himself, the possibility of a quick fuck later might help calm him down.

He hoped so, anyway. Coming on too strong didn’t matter for one night stands, but he would _not_ scare Castiel off. He couldn’t afford that, not with him. Because as much as he saw his fairy tale ending of shared murder with Castiel, there was still a long way to go.

Even though Dean was _reasonably sure_ that Castiel was the man he’d been tracking all his adult life, but there was a lingering doubt. He didn’t _know_ , and he needed to be absolutely sure before he revealed too much about himself. This date was a test, one that would hopefully show that Castiel _had_ recognized him. If that was the case, it’d be easier to go from there. If that weren’t, Dean would have to both draw out information from Castiel while simultaneously trying to jog his memory about Lawrence.

The plug finally slid into place with a wet _pop_ and Dean sighed in relief.

If worst came to worst, he should at least be able to walk away tonight having fucked the hot guy from the museum. That was worth something, right?

~ ~ ~

By the time Dean was actually dressed and ready to head out, he was running late. He skirted the line of unsafe driving as he followed his GPS to the Walters. Every little bump in the road teased at the plug in his ass, making him smile and long for things to come.

Castiel was waiting outside when Dean pulled alongside the curb. Without more than a second glance, Castiel finished typing a message on his phone and then got in.

“Hello Detective.” The greeting even came with a formal little nod as he buckled up.

“Dean,” he corrected. “This ain’t the station. It’s a date. And as much fun as it’d be to roleplay some good cop bad cop, I figured I should at least buy you dinner first.”

Although Dean wanted to roll his eyes at how fucking ridiculous he sounded—propositioning the guy not five minutes in? that was a new record even for him—Castiel didn’t seem to notice.   

“Dean.” Hearing his name roll off of Castiel’s tongue made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “Where are we headed?”

There was a coffee shop near Fells Point that Dean often brought dates to. They had live jazz most evenings, and it usually went over pretty well with his classier dates. As someone who worked at an art museum, Castiel was definitely up there on the classy scale, so it seemed a good fit.

They settled down at a small table near the front windows and grabbed a couple coffees and scones. Castiel dipped his scone in the coffee and nibbled on it while waiting for the rest of the drink to cool, and Dean was absolutely transfixed watching those big hands delicately hold the mug. He’d love to see Castiel paint firsthand. Hell, he was so damn intrigued, he’d watch him paint with actual _paint_ , never mind the blood he yearns to see dripping off him.

Dean felt his cock stir in interested as Castiel licked crumbs from his fingers. For a moment, his mind changed the scene before him. Dean was tied down and gagged, at Castiel’s mercy as he cut into him. Licked _Dean’s_ blood from his fingers and smiled at him hungrily—

 _What happened to being_ **_sure_ ** _this is the right guy?_

_Oh yeah…_

Willing his imagination and his dick to behave, he focused on the task at hand. Dean asked Castiel about his work and life in general, and Castiel politely answered while doing the same. It was the usual first date small talk bullshit Dean hated. Not that Dean didn’t hate small talk in general, but he’d gotten better at it over the years and could even fake a decent smile and laugh as need be. Bobby’d always told him that was the difference between being ‘adequate’ and ‘personable’: pretending he cared what other people were saying to the point where they believed him. It’d gotten him pretty far, and though it annoyed him that he couldn’t dive right into the nitty gritty of how Castiel got into killing, he resigned himself to putting on the necessary performance.

Not Castiel, though. He seemed generally disinterested in almost everything Dean had to say. Most of the time, he didn’t bother to feign any sort of interest and didn’t grace Dean with even a half-smile. The only time he showed even a hint of interest was when Dean went into details about a murder case he’d closed back in December. It’d been a brutal triple homicide that they’d barely kept out of the papers, though social media had picked it up instead. Castiel pressed for more details about the murder scenes and Dean readily supplied them, watching the way Castiel’s eyes lit up.

That was a good sign, right? Wanting to know more about gruesome murders was killer-like, wasn’t it?

… Then again, Dean had been on plenty of dates where his partner had a weird fascination with murder and gore. That was the thrill of dating a cop, he supposed. Often it didn’t amount to more than some mildly kinky sex.

God, he _really_ hoped it was more than that with Castiel.

Once the band started playing, it was a fucking relief. It was too hard to talk over the music, so they gave up on the painful chit chat and just listened. It was still painfully awkward, especially as Dean tried to reconcile his obvious physical attraction with their total lack of chemistry. Assuming Dean’s gut was right and Castiel _was_ the boy from the fire, what did it matter if they simply had no interest in each other?

By the time the music stopped, Dean was damn stuck in his own head he didn’t even notice. He chewed his bottom lip as he tried to figure out some way to salvage the evening. Should he invite Castiel back to his place or put his efforts into a second date.

“Dean?”

Dean suppressed the shiver he felt every time Castiel said his name, instead turning his attention to his date. “Sorry, I missed that. What?”

“I believe they’re closing. We should probably leave.”

“Oh, right.” Shoulders slumped, Dean cleared off the table and left a few dollars tip for the staff. They walked back to Dean’s car together, not side by side with their arms brushing but with at least a half foot between them.

Fuck. He’d expected things to go differently. He’d thought Castiel would _know_ him. This date was supposed to be a formality, a way to wink at each other and hint at the truth. Two hours in, Dean still had no more to go on than his unjustifiable _certainty_.

“Hey uh…” Dean’s hands fiddled awkwardly along the steering wheel before he out and said it. “You wanna come back to my place?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. He yearned for Castiel’s touch, for some semblance of intimacy. After twenty fucking years, didn’t he deserve that much?

To his surprise, Castiel agreed. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Psych evals? Training at the academy? Suppressing the thrill he felt whenever he got to open fire on the job? All of those were way easier than dealing with the drive back to his house.

All his doubts melted away the moment the door shut behind them and Castiel’s lips were on his own. Fuck it was amazing. It was like he’d been drowning all these years and now here he was finally able to _breathe_ again.

They made short work of it. They fumbled with each other’s clothes and stumbled into Dean’s bedroom, but then once Dean bent over the bed and exposed the end of the red plug, any attempts at foreplay were gone. Dean dug out the lube and a condom and tossed them Castiel’s way; bit his lip and gripped the headboard in anticipation as Castiel lined up and slid in.

The sex was a relief. As Castiel dutifully fucked him and jerked him off, Dean tried to commit everything to memory. How Castiel smelled, the sounds he made, how his hands felt around Dean’s cock or on his hip or teasing at his perineum, the feel of his sweat dripping onto Dean’s back. However lackluster their coffee shop date had been, there was a physical connection that drove them both quickly to the brink and then right over the edge.

Despite how many times he’s come within the last few days, Dean finished first. He clenched around Castiel’s cock and tried to meet his thrusts until he heard the telltale sound of Castiel coming. He fucked into Dean to milk his orgasm for as much as he could, then slid out and collapsed next to him on the bed.

“That was… unexpected…” He was panting, flush cheeks and lidded eyes, and Dean couldn’t help but bend over to steal a kiss.

“Yeah. Do it again some time?”

“Mmmm,” Castiel hummed in agreement.

They exchanged a few more lingering touches before Castiel pushed off the bed and started getting dressed. “Sorry,” he said as he buttoned his shirt back up. “But I have to get up early for work, and my apartment’s closer to the museum than this place…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, even as disappointment ate at him. He wanted Castiel in his bed all night. Today, tomorrow, for the next fucking year, however long it took to work Castiel out of his system. Probably forever.

But Dean understood Castiel’s hesitance. Maybe he needed a bit more time to get to know Dean to see how much he could trust him. It wasn’t as though Dean couldn’t move more slowly and get things back on track. Prove that this was the boy from the fire, and then see if he was open to talking about his double life with an outsider.

And show Castiel that Dean _wasn’t_ an outsider at all. He’d known all along. He could be trusted. He could _help_.

Dean slipped on a bathrobe. “Want me to drive you home?”

“I’ll take a cab.”

They made plans for another date that weekend while they waited. The cab arrived and they shared a brief kiss before Castiel was out the door. Dean didn’t even wait for the car to disappear around the corner. As soon as Castiel was safely out of earshot, he picked up his phone and called Sam.

“What?” Sam grunted from the other end. “Unless this an actual emergency or something, I’m going to have to call you back. I’ve _finally_ got this Ruby chick the way I want her and I’ve only got a few hours before this work dinner—”

“Castiel Novak. His name is Castiel Novak and I just had a date with him.”

There was some fumbling on the other end of the line (metal clinking, footsteps, a door shutting) before Sam said anything else. “So how was sex with your murder friend?” Either he’d practiced expressing genuine emotion recently, or he was genuinely curious.

“It was…” If Dean were to rate the actual date, it was sub par, even by his low standards. The sex itself was completely average. Nothing spectacular, but not terrible. Just… average. And yes, that was upsetting. He’d put so much of himself into meeting this man, and the emotional toll he’d endured that night made the sex unable to balance it out.

“That bad, huh?” Sam asked when Dean didn’t finish his answer.

“it wasn’t… it wasn’t _bad_ —”

“But it wasn’t worth waiting twenty years for?”

Dean didn’t want to admit it, but he _is_ disappointed. “I guess maybe I didn’t think about how one-sided this is. I mean, I _thought_ we had a moment back in Lawrence, but apparently it was just me…”

“Wait, so there’s like… no chemistry between you two?”

“Not really, no.” It pained him to admit it, but the more he thought about the evening, the more true it seemed. If he removed the whole fire and murder stuff from the equation, all he was left with was a hot guy who didn’t seem that into him. Dean probably would walk away from this relationship if it were _anyone else_ on the planet.

But he couldn’t see a future where he walked away from Castiel.

“Then why’s he dating you in the first place?” Sam asked.

Dean bristled, offended. “I’m decent looking—”

“Uh huh. But you only date someone to get something out of it. So you’re hot, what does that get him if there’s no chemistry? You two have already had mediocre sex, so that’s not going to get you far.”

“... I know you’ve got a theory, so just spit it out, would ‘ya?”

“Dean.” He could _hear_ Sam rolling his eyes. “Isn’t it dangerous to be dating a murderer? Aren’t you at all suspicious that this guy—who’s by all accounts a serial killer—is even _interested_ in dating a cop?

“I uh… I hadn’t thought about that.” When Castiel had agreed to the date, he’d thought it was because he’d _known_ , but that didn’t seem to be the case. If he recognized Dean, he was keeping it to himself for now. Which meant Sam had a good point.

“I bet it’s because you’re a cop working the case. He probably doesn’t care about _you_ , he just wants inside info on if you guys suspect him. Plus it’d throw suspicion off him, right? No one wants to think their boyfriend’s a killer. It’s actually really smart. I’d totally do the same thing in his position.”

“... Fuck.”

“Well, looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you. If he doesn’t remember you from Lawrence, no way he’s going to trust you. Nothing murdery is going to be up for discussion, because he might think you’re just fishing for the case. I have no idea how you’re going to do it, but you’ve got to get him to fall for you _without_ playing the murder card.”

“Dammit. How the hell am I supposed to do that? That’s like… most of what we have in common. How do I get a guy I have no chemistry with to want to stick around for more than covering his ass if this investigation goes south?”

“I’d maybe start on the sex and go from there. People will stick around for decent sex. Why do you think I dated Jess as long as I did? She was a really convenient lay back in college, and she let me try some things. You’ve gotta figure out what weird, kinky shit this Castiel guy’s into and use that to string him along until you can come up with a better plan.”

“... Are you, my younger brother, telling me to whore myself out to the man I love to trick him into staying around?”

“... Is that not a good plan?”

Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good plan or not, it’s all I got right now. Thanks.”

“Good luck. Keep me in the loop,” Sam said right before he hung up.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbled to himself, tossing the phone onto the couch. He sat there, staring blankly at the wall as he tried to figure out what the hell he was going to do.

All he could think was _this was a mistake_. Castiel was better suited for Dean back when he was just an ideal, not a living breathing man who could disappoint him like everyone else did. But at the same time, Castiel was his dream. Another murderer that he could trust with that hidden part of himself. He wanted the freedom to be open with someone else, to kill with someone else and watch them kill.

So if he had to put in a little more work to get that, well, then that was what he was going to do.

First he had to get over the childish dream he’d held onto for so long. The easy meeting and coming together, that was out. It’d been foolish to think things would be that simple. Life was _never_ that simple. And like everything else, Dean could adjust and move forward.

He could forgive Castiel for not knowing him. Castiel might or might not remember Dean from years ago, but Dean couldn’t count on that. Dean had the benefit of his sketches; it’d kept the memory of Castiel’s appearance fresh in his mind over the years. What did Castiel have? A faded memory of a child he’d seen years ago.

There wasn’t a whole lot a teenager could change in twenty years. Sure, there were differences as he’d settled into adulthood, but it was easy to pinpoint the boy from the fire in every feature. But a ten year old boy? He doubted Castiel saw the resemblance, and if he did, he likely wasn’t confident in the assessment.

While Dean desperately wanted to believe Castiel instinctually _knew_ him, it’d been naive to think that.

He’d waited twenty years already, he could be patient for a few more months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the undetailed meh sex scene, but considering it was sex that *dean* thought was meh, i figured it worked better. more detailed, fun smut to come next chapter as dean figures out how to lure cas in with his body lol


	6. Sex Sells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter! Yaay! More of a delay than usual because of real life. I'd probably expect biweekly updates from here on out as I start work up again soon. 
> 
> There are some new tags for this chapter so be aware of them. The tag list has been updated and several of those things (like breath play) come up in this chapter while others (like sounding) will be around later on. I also want to make this clear: do not try breath play!!!! It is very dangerous. Dean and Cas get off on that danger, but it's not worth the risk!

**** Since has had absolutely no better plan, Dean decided to follow Sam’s advice and use sex. For his own sanity, he needed him and Castiel to have  _ some _ sort of connection, even if it was purely sexual. Besides, he needed proof that Castiel was the boy from the fire beyond instinct and childhood memories. Once he had that, and once Castiel actually  _ trusted _ Dean, they could work on more meaningful bonding.

_ Not like it’d be a chore to ride that dick, either. _

For their second date, Dean ignored the cookie cut formula he used to impress his other dates. This was  _ Castiel _ for fuck’s sake. He deserved more thought and care put into this. So instead of one of his usual spots, Dean got them a table at the nicest restaurant in town. Aside from being upscale, expensive, and way more formal than Dean was usually willing to dress for a date, it fit in with what little he knew about Castiel. A guy who wore sweater vests and button downs to work at a friggin  _ art museum _ was a classy guy. Plus this restaurant apparently had a few famous paintings on display; if that didn’t get Cas’ attention, he didn’t know what would.

He arrived early at the restaurant, wearing a suit that didn’t fit quite as well as he remembered but that still wasn’t half bad. The valet took his car and Dean headed to the bar. Hopefully a drink or two would settle his nerves.

It actually worked. When Castiel arrived punctually at 6:45, Dean felt much more at ease. Plus, he had a game plan this time.

“Hope traffic wasn’t too bad.” It was generic small talk, but Dean couldn’t find a way around it. Not with the hostess leading them to their table and not with the other patrons in earshot.

“It was fine. I took a cab, so that saved me the headache of having to coordinate the bus schedules.”

Mastermind serial killer, yet doesn’t own a car. Damn was Dean chomping at the bit to ask questions about how he— 

_ Not yet. _

They stopped to take a look at one of the paintings the restaurant boasted as being famous. Castiel took out a pair of glasses to get a better look, commenting on the brush strokes and telling Dean about the artist. 

“He was a local painter. Born and raised in the Baltimore area. The painting itself isn’t ‘famous’—” Castiel used actual air quotes and Dean tried not to chuckle at how adorable it was. “—but it’s the  _ most _ famous of  _ his _ works. Not a bad item to have in a collection, especially around here. Now take a look at the color juxtaposition here…”

When they finally arrived at their table, Castiel looked more at ease than he had the entirety of their first date. Dean called that a success in and of itself. If only Dean could build off of it… 

They ordered a four course meal complete with wine pairings. Dean’s determined they will actually  _ talk _ this time, and Dean at least was a chatty drunk. Maybe Castiel would be the same.Dean couldn’t come right out and ask about the murders, but he  _ could _ hint at them. Maybe spark a bit of recognition, or encourage Castiel to leave hints of his own.

After Castiel finished a story about his most recent acquisition for the museum, Dean found the opening he’d wanted.

“You must travel a helluva lot for work. I’m kinda jealous.”

“I do,” Castiel acknowledged. He sniffed at his newest wine and took a small sip before humming in appreciation and drinking more. “I fly all across the continent and occasionally overseas, though the museum doesn’t really have the budget to do that very often.”

“Still, must be nice to get around. I’ve been to my fair share of the country, but you’ve probably been to just about every state.”

“Most of them. Still haven’t made it out to Hawaii. I wouldn’t mind going to Honolulu if I had the chance.”

“But you’ve been to the all the major cities here, right? New York and LA?” Dean waited for Castiel to nod. “Toronto? Chicago? Boston?”

“Often. Too often for my tastes, actually. I was in Chicago twice last year and I’m downright tired of New York. I prefer the trips that send me to smaller areas.” 

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Not only is it easier for me professionally since smaller museums and collectors are more eager to work with me, but it’s a refreshing change of pace from my life here. Mind you, I don’t mean rural areas. I’m talking about cities that are large enough to support well sized galleries but not so big that they’re inflated with their own self importance.”

With few exceptions, the places where Dean suspected murders like his parents’ were in places that met that description. Hell, Lawrence fit it, though that was probably more coincidence than anything else; Castiel couldn’t have been more than twenty at the time and wouldn’t have started working for the museum yet. 

“I’ll bet. We have the same sorta deal when we get cases that deal with other cities. Small towns are happy to hand us records and cooperate, bigger cities are a pain in the ass because they wanna handle it all themselves.” Dean leaned back in his chair and pretended to consider. “So what places you been to recently that you liked?”

“I don’t know about recent, but I quite enjoyed my time in Victoria, San Jose, and Carlisle.”

_ Victoria 2016, Freak Fire Kills Husband and Wife. _

_ San Jose 2014, Fire Levels Home, Young Roommates Killed. Arson Not Suspected. _

_ Carlisle 2010, House Collapses In Fire. No Survivors. _

Dean easily recalled the headlines. He’d memorized all of them, even the ones that were less likely to be associated with the boy in the fire. Anything even remotely close, and Dean knew about it.

He’d asked, and Castiel had named these places all on his own. Three incidents, all of them very much fitting the MO Dean had pieced together over the years. It wasn’t an outright confirmation, but it was certainly something. 

_ Add that to the list. _

“You ever make your way out to Lawrence?”

For the first time since they’d met, Castiel appeared to be caught off guard. Just for a second, his eyes darken and a bit of the carefully arranged mask of polite interest slipped away. It was one part terrifying, two parts hot as hell. 

“Can’t say that I have.”

He shouldn’t push, not this soon, but Dean couldn’t help it. “Looks like you’ve heard of it though.”

A beat of hesitation, quickly covered by Castiel reaching for his drink. He savored the taste of red wine on his tongue, carefully not making eye contact with Dean before answering. “I think I might have. It’s in Kansas, right?” 

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Not too far from Kansas City. Nice place.”

“One of my brothers actually lives out in Kansas City. That must be why it sounds familiar.”

“Must be.” Dean smiled with too much teeth. Fake through and through. He should really reel himself in, not treat this like when he was out hunting people to kill, but now that he smelled blood in the water he couldn’t help it. 

“You know, I actually grew up in Lawrence.” It wasn’t exactly true, but true enough for this conversation.

This time, however, Castiel was prepared; if the admission meant anything to him, he gave nothing away. “What brought you to Baltimore?”

“Work. Moved around a bit, never really found a place to settle for more than a few years. How ‘bout you? You lived anywhere but Maryland?”

“I’ve been here since college. Lived in a few other places as a kid, mostly wherever my older brothers were. Our parents passed away when we were young.”

“Yeah? Mine too.” They were on the edge of it, Dean could feel it, could  _ see _ it in the tenseness of Castiel’s fists and the rigid line of his back. The words were on the tip of his tongue, the declaration that  _ I know who you really are _ , but he held them back. It was too soon. Much too soon. Castiel would misread his intentions or deny Dean’s accusations altogether and he’d lose his trance.

_ Trust. I need him to trust me first. Gotta give him a  _ **_reason_ ** _ to stick around and hear me out…  _

Luckily the server arrived and interrupted them. He collected their empty dinner plates and wine glasses, then politely said dessert would be out soon. 

Dean could tell Castiel expected to go back to their previous conversation, but that wasn’t going to happen. It was time to move to the other part of his plan. 

Seduction.

He stretched his left leg under the table, firmly resting his calf against Castiel’s. Castiel jumped, though there was luckily nothing on the table to knock over. Dean had to admit, there was something fun about messing with Castiel's composure. Keeping him rattled might actually help get him somewhere, whether it was another quick fuck or getting him to slip up. 

“So,” Dean said as he slipped off his right shoe. If only he’d had the foresight to not wear socks. “You ever had sex in public?”

Aside from being a wildly inappropriate question to ask on a second date, it had nothing to do with  _ anything _ they’d been discussing that evening. It did the trick of derailing anything Castiel might have wanted to ask.

“No, I haven’t,  _ officer _ .” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Dean. “Why would you—?”

Then Dean’s foot was rubbing at Castiel’s crotch, and he choked on the rest of his comeback. Dean smiled smugly as he kept at it, rubbing at Castiel’s dick until he could feel it getting harder. Before Castiel could protest or even acknowledge what was happening, their server arrived with desserts and brandy.

“Anything else I can bring for you?” the young man asked politely. 

“No thanks,” Dean said smoothly. “We’ll be fine.”

Castiel barely grunted in acknowledgement; his eyes were fluttering shut and by now his cock was a hard line against the zipper of his dress slacks. As Dean leisurely enjoyed his deconstructed apple pie, Castiel took no more than three bites of his own chocolate mousse. 

“You should really eat up,” Dean said as he licked his fork clean. “Looks good.”

“And you should get on with it,” Castiel growled back, his hand sneaking under the table to firmly press Dean’s foot against his crotch.

Dean immediately stopped what he was doing. That earned him a whine and a scowl from his date. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it depends. You coming back to my place after dinner?”

“Will you continue what you were doing if I say yes?” After a quick nod from Dean, Castiel relaxed minutely. “Then yes. Now keep going.”

_ That’s better.  _

After the rather mediocre sex last time, any interested on Castiel’s part was more than welcome. Getting him to practically beg for more of Dean’s touch, that was a bonus.

Beg might have been too strong a word for it. Castiel was demanding, yes, but he in no way wanted to hand control over to Dean. Dean was more than happy to stroke Castiel and tease at his balls, but he didn’t try to get him off. 

Castiel  _ hated _ it. It was obvious in the way he tried to force Dean’s foot to press harder or more quickly, the way he would sometimes thrust up into Dean. There was only so much he could do without making it obvious to the other patrons what was happening, and the restriction had Castiel gritting his teeth and clutching at the tablecloth in frustration. It was all kinds of hot, reducing this predator of a man to a helpless mess. 

When they’d finally finished their desserts and brandy, Dean almost ordered a second drink to drag things out. Only the death glare leveled at him kept his mouth shut (though it did nothing to keep him from grinning triumphantly). He did take his time paying and having the car brought around, the only measure of control left to him now that they had to keep a few inches between them. 

As soon as they were in the car, Castiel tossed aside the jacket he’d been using to discreetly cover himself as they left the restaurant. 

“This is a nice car,” Castiel said as they pulled out onto the street. “I didn’t notice the last time, but it really is quite beautiful.”

“Thanks.” It’d been a gift from Bobby back in high school. A vintage car as both a reward for not getting into fights anymore and a project to keep him around the junkyard more than usual. Never mind that the old man probably wanted Dean to be able to drive himself when he went out for tae kwon do practice or tracking down rare books, it’d worked out for both of them pretty well. “Fixed her up myself. Makes it hard to park in the city, but it’s totally worth it.”

“I’ll bet. I really like it.” He scooted over on the bench until he was pressed right against Dean’s side. Before Dean could ask what he was doing, there was a hand on his crotch, stroking him through his pants and forcing him to spread his legs a little. “I especially like the seats,” Castiel purred into his ear. 

“Oh  _ fuck _ ,” Dean hissed. This was probably ever half baked fantasy about car sex he’d ever had, all rolled into one. His childhood crush, teasing him to full hardness and biting at his ear. He did his best to focus on the road as Castiel slowly unbuckled his pants, unzipped them, worked his hand inside… 

“Hey!” Dean whined when Castiel’s hand disappeared. He tried to turn and look at Castiel, but Castiel wouldn’t let him move. 

“Keep your eyes on the road,  _ officer _ . I wouldn’t want you to get pulled over for reckless driving.”

And then Castiel ducked down and took all of Dean’s cock into his mouth. Dean wasn’t ashamed to admit he whimpered when he felt himself touching the back of Castiel’s throat. Instinctively, a hand reached out to thread through Castiel’s hair and urge him on, but he stubbornly remained still. 

After a couple failed attempts to get more—all of which resulted in Dean jerking out of the lane or swerving to avoid a curb—he gave up. No matter how much Dean pulled at his hair or tried to shift his hips enough to thrust in, there was nothing he could do to make Castiel move. All he did was swallow around Dean’s cock occasionally.

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” 

Castiel swallowed particularly hard around him, his tongue trailing along the base. Dean moaned and clutched helplessly at the back of Castiel’s neck. 

“Look, if this is about me teasing you back at the restaurant—”

Another swallow, followed by a hint of blunt teeth as he bobbed his head up and down once minutely. 

“Oh  _ fuck _ .” 

_ Even if he’s not the boy from the fire, I might just keep him around for a bit. Might’ve actually met my match…  _

Dean ignored a lot of traffic laws on his way back home. It took all his concentration to park, and only once he’d shut off the engine did Castiel mercifully pop off of him.

Wiping spit off his mouth with the back of his hand, Castiel smiled innocently at Dean. “Shall we continue this inside?”

“You fucking bet we’re going to continue this inside.” Dean jerked his door open a little too harshly and let it slam shut. He’d check on the car later. Right now he wanted more of Castiel’s mouth on him. 

Dean flicked his bedroom lights on as he tore off his tie and jacket. Why the hell did he have to dress in so many damn layers and why did his shirt have about a million buttons? After he’d worked himself down to his boxers, he noted Castiel was still mostly dressed. 

“Hey, you going to get undressed or—?”

“You ever use these?” Castiel asked curiously. In his hand were a pair of handcuffs he’d taken from the dresser. Dean usually left his badge, gun, and cuffs there when he got home; he had the foresight to actually put the gun away, but the cuffs and badge were still there.

“Uh yeah?” He raised an eyebrow, because  _ obviously _ . “I arrest people all the time—”

“Mind if I use them on you?”

Oh.

If he hadn’t already been hard and leaking from Castiel’s display in the car, that alone would’ve done it. Now he felt his cock twitch and his heart flutter in excitement. He’d never done that before, at least not with real cuffs. There’d been a girl way back who’d had these ridiculous, fake ones that were covered in pink padding and probably would’ve broken if Dean had so much as flexed. These, though… He’d be trapped. 

He’d be at the mercy of a killer. A killer who’s no doubt suspicious about what Dean did or didn’t know about his true self. If he wanted to eliminate Dean… 

“Yeah.” Voice rough, he coughed to clear it a bit. “Yeah, go for it. Where you want me?”

Castiel’s eyes lit up and he nodded to the bed. “By the headboard. On your back.”

Dean did as he was told, stretching his arms out above him so that Castiel could secure him to the bed. The metal was cold against his heated skin, digging into him as Castiel snapped the left and then the right side shut. He knew they’d hold, but Dean couldn’t help pulling at the restraints a bit. They bit into his wrists and he shuddered. 

No way he was getting out without breaking the headboard. 

Fuck, that shouldn’t be so hot.

It was even hotter when he saw Castiel watching him, his gaze completely predatory. 

“You shouldn’t have been such a tease at the restaurant.” He laid his jacket on Dean’s dresser, then moved on to his shirt. He meticulously did each button one at a time before neatly folding it. His shoes, socks, and pants were next. With each new item, Castiel did not rush or cut corners as he folded them and put them aside. 

If it weren’t for the bulge in his briefs, Dean might think he were completely uninterested in the whole affair. 

That kind of patience and restraint, well, it was no wonder he’d gone this long without getting caught. Dean had only managed it because of Bobby’s constant nagging and coaching. He wondered if Castiel had someone guiding him through things or if he’d had to learn all on his own. 

“I don’t mind repaying you in kind.” 

Dean blinked, having lost the thread of the conversation, but then Castiel was on top of him. He kissed Dean roughly, possessively, and didn’t give him a moment’s pause to catch his breath or regroup. Soon he gave up trying to think rationally and let Castiel have his way with him. 

Without his arms, there wasn’t a whole lot Dean could do. He tried twisting around so that their cocks were lined up better, used his feet to ground himself and thrust up. 

“Fuck, Cas—”

“Did I say you could move?” Castiel growled. In an instant, he was off of Dean and sitting back on his calves. “Or talk?”

He reached blindly behind him and grabbed Dean’s abandoned tie, then shoved it in his mouth. Dean grunted in protest. 

“That’s better.” 

Castiel stayed back, tracing Dean’s legs and thighs before yanking off his boxers. Dean’s dick absolutely throbbed with need, but Castiel pointedly ignored it. Instead his hands dipped low to run along his crack and trace his hole.

“You didn’t prep yourself for me?” Castiel scolded. “That’s unfortunate. You’ve gotten me so worked up, I don’t know if I can wait long enough to do it properly myself…” 

After digging through his dresser, Castiel found an almost empty bottle of lube and got to work. He was absolutely merciless, way rougher than Dean’s ever had it as he immediately fucked two fingers into him. Before he’d even properly gotten used to the stretch, Castiel added another. Soon he had four fingers in Dean, and Dean was writhing helplessly against his sheets. 

Even when he pulled out his fingers and slicked up his cock, it was too much too soon. Dean bit down on the tie as Castiel took little to no care to be gentle as he bottomed out in one slick motion. 

It hurt but it hurt so  _ good _ . Not because Dean necessarily liked pain (though maybe he did, but that might require further exploration), but because it was  _ Castiel.  _ No scratch that, it was  _ Cas.  _ He wasn’t some persona he put on for the masses. As he fucked ruthlessly into Dean, all Dean could think was  _ finally _ .

When he met Cas’ eyes, he shuddered. There’s a look in them, something Dean remembered from the fire. 

Dean actually felt a flicker of fear shoot through him when Cas’ hands went to his throat. What seemed to be a claiming grip turned into something else as he started to squeeze on Dean’s windpipe. Dean panted through his nose until he couldn’t get any more air at all. 

It was honestly the most arousing thing he’d ever experienced.

He’d handed over complete control to someone else, to  _ Cas.  _ He’d surrendered his body for Castiel to do as he pleased. If that meant fucking him roughly or choking him or anything else, Dean was willing to give in. He’d belonged to Cas ever since that moment in the fire, so what did it matter if he gave a little more now?

The adrenaline rushing through him had Dean teetering on the edge of orgasm. Every gasp of air Cas allowed him was agonizing, but the feel of Cas moving inside him was pure bliss. He was scared, more scared than he’d ever been… And Castiel knew that. He was getting off on Dean’s fear. More than that, he could  _ feel  _ it when Cas came inside him. Fuck, no one had ever come in him without a condom before, and now it was  _ Castiel fucking Novak  _ doing it.

Cas kept thrusting into him, face flushed and in total ecstasy. Even after, he didn’t let go of Dean’s throat.

If anything, his grip got tighter.

Spots danced across Dean’s vision. Castiel’s hold on him was too tight. Maybe this was it. Maybe he fucked up and trusted Cas more than he should have— 

Cas let up his hands just enough for Dean to take in one shuddering breath. As soon as the much needed oxygen hit his lungs, his orgasm ripped right through him. It was so fucking good, getting to come after being on edge for so long. Half of it might’ve been getting to breathe again, but damn if Dean cared. 

“Holy shit,” Dean coughed. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he wasn’t tied up or gagged anymore, and there wasn’t any come or lube left on him. His voice was a fucking mess, his wrists hurt, his ass hurt, his lungs still burned… and he’d never been so happy in his life. “That was awesome.”

He’d almost died but it  _ totally _ was.

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, for once sounding like he meant it. He ducked down to kiss Dean. It was almost sweet, until he ended it with a bite. “We should do that again.”

“... Can I choke you out next time?”

“... If you let me do it to you again, yes.”

“Deal.”

No matter where it ended, Dean had a good feeling about where this was going.

And maybe he could get it to end in fire and blood after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~my own personal foot dexterity is awful, i don't know how you'd even jerk someone off like that but let's pretend dean could~~


	7. West Coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaay! An update!
> 
> Sorry for the long delay. Real Life and some challenge deadlines got in the way of me being able to have the extra time to work on my WIPs. I'm tentatively back to a sort of regular update schedule, but don't hold me to that. I'm also going to warn you guys that this is a fun fic for me: I'm not going to double check what I've already done or do a whole lot of research, etc. If something doesn't line up with something I've already put in, I do apologize (and let me know in the comments so I can tweak things when I get around to it), but it's likely to happen. All of the above is also why this chapter is shorter than the usual ones for this story - I wanted to post something and I found a decent breaking point (and it would've driven me crazy to keep going to the next obvious stopping point).
> 
> I also don't really have any new tags for this chapter, but there's a borderline wincest-y scene at the end. The brothers aren't really aroused by each other and don't interact sexually with each other, but they are kind of getting off on the same thing (even while thinking about different partners). If you'd like more details, let me know. And if you're thinking you might skip that part, it comes at the very end after Sam asks for the scalpel. 
> 
> Okay, I think I covered everything! Come yell at me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com) and enjoy the new chapter!

Dean’s neck was bruised for a good week after and his voice was wrecked no matter how many cups of tea he drank or throat lozenges he used. And Dean could _not_ be happier. He couldn’t stop smiling to the point where even Garth thought it was strange.

Cas had fucked him, _really_ fucked him, and it’d been amazing.

He had to hide the bruises with scarves for a bit. Not because he was embarrassed—far from it, he loved looking at the marks in the mirror and he seriously wanted to let everyone know how much Cas owned him—but because he didn’t want to have to answer questions. Garth was already curious how things were going with Cas, and the idea of exposing even a little of who the two of them really were seemed dangerous.

And if Dean liked having this whole thing with Cas to himself, well, could you really blame him? How many years had he been waiting, and now things were finally going the direction he wanted? He didn’t even want to talk to Sam about it. Not that Sam had ever been one to push, but now especially Dean avoided his calls and only gave vague responses to his text messages.

A few days after their date, Dean got a call from Cas.

If this were like any of the other people he’d dated, Dean wouldn’t think much of it. That was normal, right? Both people in the relationship calling each other? But up until now, Cas had mostly been going through the motions. If Dean asked him out, he went. If Dean called, he answered. If Dean initiated sex, he went along.

Cas calling him was a _huge_ deal.

“Cas?” Dean tried not to sound too eager when he picked up. “What’s up?”

“How’s your neck?”

Dean blushed, absentmindedly pulling at his scarf. “Sore. It’s a good sore, though.”

There was a rumble of acknowledgement. Dean could feel himself getting hard and he shuffled on his feet to hide it.

“Want to return the favor?” Cas asked. “I’m free this Thursday evening if you’d like to meet for dinner.”

Cas was asking _him_ out. Holy shit.

“I’d like that.” At least if his voice was rougher than usual, Dean could blame it on getting choked out. “How ‘bout my place? I’ll cook you something nice.”

“It’s a date.”

Neither was surprised when they skipped the food altogether and went right to sex. They barely made it through getting Cas’ trenchcoat hung up before Cas was on Dean, fisting his hair and stealing demanding kisses.

“You said it was my turn,” Dean growled as he pushed Cas away. Honestly, letting Cas tie him up and have his way with him again wasn’t completely off the table, but Dean was itching to have Cas writhing and begging for release.

He wanted to see Castiel want him half as much as he wanted Cas.

Even if it was only sexual, he’d take it. He’d take it and he’d turn it into more once he was sure Cas wouldn’t try to kill him.

… Though the thought of fighting him was admittedly kind of hot.

“It is,” Castiel admitted as he stepped back. He looked mildly disappointed but otherwise perfectly content to hand over control to Dean. “What are you going to do with me, _officer_?”

“Oh, don’t worry sweetheart. You’ll find out…”

Dean had only planned a repeat of their last date, but as soon as he’d handcuffed Castiel he knew that wouldn’t work. Cas looked up at him patiently but without an ounce of fear. That wasn’t surprising; Dean had been scared because he _knew_ Cas was a cold blooded killer and could easily kill Dean without a second’s thought. Whatever Cas might suspect about Dean, he probably didn’t expect _that_. Dean was an officer of the law and would barely _hurt_ Cas, never mind kill him.

Poor, naive Cas.

Granted, Dean _wouldn’t_ kill him, but only because it was _him_. If he weren’t the boy in the fire, he’d be fair game. Sooner or later, Cas would start to realize just how dangerous Dean was.

Dean _really_ looked forward to that moment. He didn’t think today was the day it would happen, but Dean was patient. He’d edge Cas closer, even if only subconsciously, towards that point.

Just like when he made his prey look at him with terror before he killed them, Dean fucking _loved_ the nervous way Cas watched him and tested his bindings. And he absolutely _adored_ the shocked whine when he blindfolded Cas and started prepping him roughly.

It felt like a real victory, to make that man scared of him.

By the end of it, Cas was hogtied, blindfolded, gagged, bruised, and covered with hot wax as Dean fucked into him to his heart’s content. Any worries Dean might have had about Cas enjoying left after the second time Cas came over the sheets.

 _Then_ they had dinner.

~ ~ ~

After about two months of the roughest sex Dean’s ever had (Dean had already twisted his ankle and there’d been that time he’d accidentally dislocated Cas’ shoulder; damn if Dean still didn’t jerk about both incidents), Cas abruptly canceled their next date.

“A business trip has come up,” he explained over the phone. “I’ll be in Berkeley for a few days. UC’s trying to clear out its archives and a contact of mine offered to let me take a look before they donated the rest to local museums and historical associations.”

“Berkeley,” Dean repeated, closing out his current case files and opening up a new browser window. _Plane tickets to San Francisco_. “When you heading out?”

Cas sighed. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll be back Monday night if you’d like to get together then. I know it’s not a particularly convenient date night, but it’s the soonest I’d be available.”

Dean was too preoccupied refining his search to spare a second thought to Cas’ genuine disappointment. Later on he could celebrate that Cas actually _liked_ him. Right now he had to focus.

“That’s too bad, Cas,” Dean said as he started clicking through the booking page. Shit, credit card info… “Have a good trip. Can’t wait to see you Monday.”

“Thank you, Dean. Good-bye.”

By the time he hung up, Dean was already printing out his boarding pass.

Bobby had tried to beat out the impulsive streak Dean had, and it’d mostly worked. Dean planned everything out—from passing his psych evals to choosing and hunting his victims, Dean didn’t do anything until he’d rehearsed and gone through all possible contigencies—and it’d kept him safe. This, though? No fucking way was Dean missing out on this.

There was no guarantee that Cas would kill anyone, especially given the current investigation. But Dean totally understood the itch to get out there and get his hands dirty. He was willing to bet that if Cas got a chance to kill while on his trip, he absolutely would.

And then Dean could _watch_. He could see the whole thing, see how it’d changed since they’d met years ago across the flames.

He could be a part of it.

“You hate flying,” Sam pointed out that night. A muffled cry in the background caused Sam to groan in annoyance and there was a long pause before he was able to say more. “This guy really worth it?”

“Getting to see Cas in action?” He grabbed a few shirts and threw them in his dufflebag. “Easily worth a hundred plane rides. Can I stay at your place or what?”

“ _Why_? Just bunk with your boyfriend—”

“I _can’t_. He can’t know I’m there. I’m trying to see him in action. I gotta _know_ it’s him.”

“So—?”

“You never heard of the observer effect? The very act of observing messes up the results? If I’m watching Cas and he _knows_ I’m watching him, he’s not gonna do what he normally does. Plus I gotta have an excuse to be out there, and what better excuse than visiting my lil’ bro?”

Sam sighed. “Fine. You can take the guest room. Just give me a head’s up before you come over. I gotta make sure I’m not in the middle of a scene when you show up and barge into the dungeon.”

“I did that _one time_ —”

“And it set me back _weeks_. Text, call, I don’t give a shit, but let me know at least an hour ahead of time.”

“Uh huh. Sending you the flight info now.”

Dean played with the idea of showing up unannounced to fuck with his brother, but he knew Sam’s temper well enough that he didn’t risk it. If Sam wouldn’t let him stay at his place, then Dean would be stuck trying to find a hotel _and_ he’d risk blowing the excuse he’d used at work.

“Heya Sammy.” Dean beamed as his brother when he opened the door. “When’d you put in grass?”

“When I got the dog.” He let Dean barrel past him and shut the door quickly. “How long are you staying?”

“Good grief, way to make a guy feel welcome.” Tossing his bag at the foot of the stairs, Dean rubbed his hands together. “Can I see what you got going on downstairs?”

Despite how strict he was about interrupting scenes, Sam actually loved showing off his work. As soon as he’d gotten a decent salary, he’d purchased a fixer upper on the outskirts of San Francisco so he could get the dungeon put in. The house itself was amazing—big, open, and excessively modern but homey—but Dean really loved that basement.

“Sure. I’ve got a murder tied up on the table. We finished up a few hours ago, so she’s probably still passed out. I should probably check her IV anyway…”

“You mean an _alleged_ murderer?”

Sam snorted as he went to undo the deadbolt to the basement. “Nope, she’s definitely guilty. If the prosecutor had half of what I did on her, she’d be dead to rights. Lucky for her _I’ve_ got that murder weapon and _I’m_ the one who knows how to prove her alibi's bullshit, so she's safe so long as I  _let_ her be safe."

As soon as the door opened, Sam’s dog Bones shot out and started growling at Dean.

“Your mutt doesn’t like me very much.”

“He wouldn’t be a very good guard dog if he liked anyone besides _me_ ,” Sam pointed at as he offered the dog a treat. The dog accepted it, glaring menacingly at Dean as it chewed. “Just don’t make any sudden movements and you’re fine.”

“... You serious?”

The look Sam shot him said that yes, he absolutely was.

 _This_ was the sort of thing that kept Dean from visiting too often.

He slowly edged past the dog and down the stairs, followed by Sam and the dog. At the bottom there was a small den set up with a TV and exercise bike, as well as a padlocked door that looked like it might lead into a laundry room. A heavily secured laundry room, maybe, but still. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until Sam opened that door too. With a grin, he waved Dean inside.

As promised, there was a blindfolded woman strapped down on a table. A blanket covered most of her, but the exposed skin was bruised and cut. At least everywhere that would be hidden by long sleeves; her hands, face, and neck were all pristine. An IV was slowly dripping, probably there to make up for the blood loss that came with those cuts.

“You don’t bother gagging her?” Dean asked as he circled around her a few times. He kept his voice down, but she didn’t stir. He had no idea if that meant she was passed out or if Sam had trained her well enough to not move.

Probably both.

“Why bother? Room’s soundproofed. All she’s going to do is shout herself hoarse. Besides, I like to hear them.”

Sam might not be a killer like Dean, but he sure had his quirks. From what little Dean had learned over the years, Sam was a total sadist, especially when it came to sex. He’d had a lot of problems earlier on when he was in college, but now that he’d moved out on his own, he’d figured out how to get what he wanted and needed out of partners.

… Actually Dean should probably be taking notes.

“She’s one of your clients, right?”

“They always are. Easiest way to guarantee obedience. Hey, check these out. New toys I got last week. The hot wax wasn’t doing it for me anymore, so I upgraded to some new clamps.”

Dean whistled. Sam’s collection had always been impressive. Sure, Dean didn’t know what half of it did, but he knew enough to know most of it hurt in the wrong hands, and Sam’s were _definitely_ the wrong hands.

“You’re not worried they’re gonna talk or anything? I mean, you basically just torture and fuck ‘em for a bit. These are murderers, right? What if they want revenge once they’re out?” He pointed to a long, thin metal rod. “What’s this?”

Sam gave him a look. “Do I give you shit about your business? No, because you’re a professional and can handle yourself. Trust me, I know what I’m doing. They won’t talk. Not with the dirt I’ve got on them.” Sam picked up the metal rod. “This is a sound. If I had a guy on the table, I’d show you how to use it, but I don’t so I’ll send you some videos.”

“... You take videos?”

“ _Tutorials_ , Dean. I’m not stupid enough to take videos.”

“Oh. Right.” Dean grabbed one of the sounds. What the hell, right?

After rolling his eyes dramatically, Sam walked around to check on the woman’s pulse. “You don’t have to worry about them talking. Strictly speaking, none of what I’m doing is actually _illegal_. Unsavory, maybe, but I’m not breaking any laws.”

If anyone could talk his way out of this, it’d be Sam. He once cuted his way out of nearly stealing a deputy’s gun when he was sixteen. Jody hadn’t been too happy about it, but she’d let it go all the same. Dean’d love to see Sam use those puppy eyes and his fancy law speak on a jury.

Probably why his win record was so good as it was.

“So do you only take on the guilty ones? Probably makes things easier.”

“Only the guilty ones who don’t have any money are desperate enough to do this, so yeah. I have signed confessions from all of them. Murder weapons, surveillance footage they hid, bloody clothes, all that. All the evidence the prosecution would need to put these fucks away for life. For them, letting me use their bodies is easy fucking payment considering what I’m saving them from.”

“... Getting the same treatment in prison?”

“ _Dean_.”  That was, what? Bitchface number five? “This isn’t indentured servitude. I only get them as long as the trial goes on, then they’re free men and women. That’s always a shorter sentence than what they’d be facing in prison.”

“Anyone ever said no?”

“A couple have. But they usually come back once they realize I’m the only one out there who accepts _alternate_ forms of payment. The rich ones pay up front, which is nice, and the poor ones end up down here.”

Dean wondered if he’d be willing to go that far to get out of trouble. So far everything he’d done could be solved by lying, stabbing, or shouting his way out of it. If he got caught and his back was against the wall… Yeah, he could see it.

Never going to get that bad, so he’d never need to make the call.

Besides, Sam would take on the case pro bono.

Probably.

“You gonna give me a show or I gotta buy a ticket in advance?”

“When you going after your boyfriend?”

Dean checked his watch. “I think I actually beat him to California. He’s probably got work all day and ‘ll sneak out some time after dark. I got some time.”

“Awesome.” Describing a six foot four grown man as giddy wasn’t something Dean normally did, but the way Sam practically bounced in excitement couldn’t be described as anything else. “If you and Cas ever get on the same page murder wise, there are some fun things you might wanna try. Ever heard of bloodplay?”

“... No but I’m going to guess it’s exactly what it sounds like.”

“Kind of. It’s dangerous, though. Hand me a scalpel and I’ll show you…”

The woman woke up after the first incision, and though she cried out in pain and struggled for a little bit, she was too securely tied and Sam obviously didn’t care. And when she stopped crying out, Sam drew back, then stuck the scalpel in and twisted until she screamed. After that, she was a lot more vocal about what he was doing.

He kept going, cutting line after line and letting the blood flow. When it got in the way, he’d dab at it with gauze but otherwise did nothing to stop it. Every now and then, he’d explain to Dean what he was doing—how deep, how far, what to avoid—but mostly he simply let Dean watch. The only way Dean could tell Sam was getting off on it was the sheen of sweat collecting at his brow and his heavy breathing.

For years, Dean never really got it. Sam did his thing, and Dean did his. As far as he was concerned, there’d never really been any overlap except that society didn’t really like what they were doing and would lock them up if they found out. Before Cas, none of what Sam showed him would’ve been appealing. Whenever Sam talked about his hobbies, Dean would nod politely and pretend to care the same way Sam pretended to care about his hunt for Cas.

Now? Holy _fuck_. Dean was uncomfortably hard as he watched Sam work. All he could think about was doing this to Cas. Carving him up and leaving his mark on Castiel, some physical proof that he’d impacted Cas in some way like Castiel had profoundly affected Dean.

He could imagine Cas on this table, not blindfolded though, no no no, Dean wanted to see Cas’ eyes as he tried not to flinch. Dean would use a knife, not a scalpel. Too impersonal with the scalpel. He’d mark Cas with all the symbols he’d memorized as a boy. Paint him with the same bloody wings he left for his own victims. Then he’d dip his hands in Cas’ blood and—

“You know what.” Dean coughed awkwardly. “I’m going to let you have your fun here. I’m uh… I’m going to head to the guest room and rest up for a bit, okay?”

Sam blinked at him like he’d forgotten Dean was even there. “Oh, yeah, sure.” He waved Dean off. “Go have fun. Lemme know if you want to get dinner or something.”

“Right.”

Dean had no plans beyond getting himself behind a locked door and jerking off to the very delicious fantasy he’d just come up with.

Then he’d find Cas, and see about making that fantasy a reality.


	8. Proof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yaay we're back with a new chapter! dean's another step closer to what he really wants!
> 
> and thank you to [wickedrai](http://wickedrai.tumblr.com) for beta-reading! i appreciate it :) and if there are any mistakes in the last third ish of the chapter, those are totally my own.

****Getting to Cas’ hotel is problematic. Cas wasn’t necessarily forthcoming with details of his trip, mostly because it was so last minute and they barely talked, and it wasn’t as though Dean could push.

“Yeah, I need the exact address of your hotel, the plates for the car you plan on renting, and your entire schedule so I can fly out there and stalk you.”

Wouldn’t have gone over well even if Cas _weren’t_ a serial killer.

So all Dean has to go on are the vague references Cas made to neighborhoods and the photo he sent Dean of his lunch at a local restaurant. Well that and tracking the GPS in Cas’ phone, but Dean worried the signal would cut out at any second. Or that Cas would leave the phone behind when he went out that night. If Dean didn’t get there in time to track him, this whole trip would be a bust…

He arrived at a old fashioned hotel. It was only three stories, looked family owned and run, and seemed pretty low on the amenities. No pool for sure, and only the top story had balconies attached to the rooms. As Dean did a slow drive around the block, he was pretty sure that the only cameras the place had were in the lobby facing the front desk.

An easy place to sneak in and out of. If the camera got footage of you coming in, it’d be hard to prove you’d left. And the area had a lot of foot traffic, so no one would be paying attention to a completely normal guy walking to or from his car from the hotel. Drenched in blood, well, _that_ might draw some attention.

_Wonder if that’s why he’s got the trenchcoat…_

After a quick drive through the area, Dean found a spot that gave him a view of the hotel garage. He doubted Cas would be coming out the main entrance and it was unlikely Cas would be doing anything in the immediate vicinity; he preferred neighborhoods in or near big cities but outside the hustle and bustle.

Out where people thought they were safe from the type of brutal crime Cas brought with him—

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Winchester. You still don’t know it’s him. Gut feeling and intuition aren’t the same as actual evidence.”

As the sun set and street lights came on, Dean distracted himself by playing on his phone. Really what he was doing is making himself look less creepy to passersby, because there was nothing on his phone as interesting as knowing Cas was nearby.

_What if it isn’t him, though? You’re half in love with the guy, assuming he’s someone he might not be._

_If Cas isn’t the boy from the fire, you still gonna hang around?_

Like it or not, he’d developed a soft spot for the nerdy museum curator.

_Maybe I’ll keep dating him for the sex. Killer or not, he’s into some kinky shit._

The thought’s interrupted by the appearance of a completely average looking Honda Accord. It drives out of the parking garage looking so incredibly _boring_ that Dean wouldn’t have looked twice, except for the fact that it was very obviously Cas behind the wheel.

Perfect.

Being a cop had given him plenty of experience trailing people. Keeping a reasonable distance from Cas wasn’t a big deal or even hard. It _was_ strangely nerve-wracking. He’d never cared about an actual case he’d worked as much as this one. There’d been _years_ of emotional investment, never mind the effort he’d expended getting this far. No matter what he found at the end of this drive, it would be the end of a chapter in his life and the start of a new one.

God he hoped it was one that centered around Cas…

They ended up in some neighborhood with a suburban feel. It was completely ordinary in every way, from the mailboxes to the street signs to the number of families walking their dog. Except for a few California quirks, this whole place could belong to a thousand other cities across the country.

It could be Lawrence.

Cas parked at a seemingly random house and cut the engine. Dean drove by and doubled back to avoid suspicion, parking a few houses down. By the time he’d done that, Cas was walking down the street, sans trenchcoat.

_There goes that theory I guess._

He wondered briefly if he should follow immediately or wait a bit. In the end, his lack of patience won out and he ducked out of his rental and followed Cas down the street.

Instead of approaching the houses directly near where he’d parked, he walked down to a lone house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Without breaking his stride, he left the sidewalk and disappeared into the backyard.

The house itself had a few lights on, a car in the driveway, and honestly nothing that Dean could distinguish as interesting or unique. Even the paint color (brown) was _boring_ . The tree out front? _Boring_ . What made Cas pick this house? In this neighborhood? Did he pick at random or did he research ahead of time? _What_ did he research—?

_Chill out. You can ask him later._

_Fuck, I really hope that’s true._

Caution was the only reason he didn’t run into the backyard after Cas. It wasn’t just about Cas finding him too soon, it was about _other_ people getting suspicious. Cas he could probably handle, but it’d be tricky to get them _both_ out of trouble with the cops. Luckily no one was around; everyone was inside finishing their dinner and no one noticed a second strange man disappearing into a neighbor’s yard.

The back door was wide open, but Dean didn’t dare go too close. Instead he kept to the side, peeking into the windows.

“Holy shit…”

_Castiel surprised a couple at dinner. They were in their late twenties, the yuppie young professional types trying to transition into being the young family in the ‘burbs. The woman was facing the door and saw him first, but she was too shocked to cry out and warn her husband. Castiel struck him right across the back of the head so hard he was knocked out cold._

_By the time she realized what was happening, it was too late for Sally Homemaker. Cas got his hands around her neck and strangled the life out of her._

Dean scratched at his collar, knowing all too well how strong those fingers were when they were wrapped around someone’s neck.

_The husband twitched but didn’t come around. Too bad, he missed it as Cas slit his wife’s throat and painted their lovely table cloth bright red. The sigils were mostly familiar, though the movement of Castiel’s hand as he worked was breathtaking._

_When he was done with the table, he pushed the woman’s chair up against the nearest wall. She slumped awkwardly down, but Castiel didn’t seem to mind. He painted breathtaking wings for her, stretching clear across the room. He even painted a little halo for her that dripped into her hair._

_Satisfied, Cas turned his attention back to the man. He kicked aside the table and laid him at his wife’s feet. An offering to a dead angel._

_The man choked against his makeshift gag as Cas cut into him. Too weak to fight back, he was forced to actually feel it as he bled out. Forced to_ **_feel_ ** _it every time Cas cut back into him with his own cooking knife. Forced to watch as Cas painted him a lovely set of wings to rival his wife’s…_

_Flames started up before he finished. Castiel must have started the blaze in the kitchen and let it do its work. It was starting to flare up wildly now, and with the neighborhood quiet in the dead of night, Dean suspected no one would notice until it’d consumed most of the house._

Dean was seconds away from barging in after. This was it, this was _proof_ after years of tracking and months of uncertainty. This was the moment Cas stopped being his lifelong obsession and truly became the boy from the fire. Dean’s fingers itched to run his hand through the blood and mat it into Cas’ hair, to push him against the dining room table and fuck him right there. The scene was so beautiful, _Cas_ was so beautiful, that Dean was almost overcome with need.

 _Almost_.

He imagined what would happen if their roles were reversed. If anyone other than Sam, Cas, or Bobby had walked in on _him_ killing, there'd be nothing to save them from a quick and brutal end. Not a single ex of his would've been safe if they'd found out about him, and _especially_ not if they're caught him in the act.

If Dean walked in there right now, he was a dead man.

Maybe Cas too if the fire got out of hand while they went at it.

So instead of making good on decades of longing, he pried himself away from the window. He knew enough about Cas’ MO to know he wouldn’t stay long enough to watch the house burn down. If he wanted to avoid Castiel catching him, he’d have to be gone before Cas got back to his car.

The only time he allowed himself to look back was right before he turned out of the neighborhood. The skyline was too dark to see the smoke that was no doubt billowing into the air. Soon someone would smell or see something, and then it’d be sirens and the fire department and _maybe_ the police. Doubtful, though. Not one of the cases Dean had looked at were suspected as anything other than a tragic accident. No murder, no arson, just faulty wiring and bad luck.

_Well, except for Mildred in Baltimore. Gonna have to ask Cas about that one…_

Soon he actually _would_ be able to ask Cas about it. He’d tiptoed around the topic for weeks now, edging closer but unwilling to actually come out and say anything for fear that he was wrong. Now he had actual _proof_ , though. He’d seen Cas kill people with his own eyes, watched him paint the room red with blood as he calmly went about his work.

Cas _was_ the boy from the fire. Cas was _his_ , his perfect match.

All he had to do was tell Cas that.

_I could go to his hotel. I could definitely get there before him. Sneak into his room, surprise him—_

_Post murder? Are you a fucking idiot? That’s almost as bad as walking in on him with a knife in someone’s throat. You_ **_cannot_ ** _surprise him right now. Even with something as mundane as you showing up in California right now would be way too fucking suspicious._

 _You_ **_know_ ** _it’s Cas. You can calm the fuck down and do this right. This isn’t about you getting what you want asap, this is about making Cas comfortable so you can have what you want long term. So be smart and don’t do anything stupid._

Funny how that voice in his head sounded a lot like his uncle Bobby.

Instead of going back to the hotel, Dean stopped for gas and put Sam’s address into the GPS. As much as he wanted Cas right this fucking second, it was a bad idea. He still hadn’t figured out how to tell Cas, and until he did that, he should keep his mouth shut.

… Though that didn’t mean he had to completely avoid Cas.

_Dean >> hey babe really miss you _

_Dean >> call me when you get a chance okay?? _

_Dean >> wanna hear that voice of yours get me off and i can’t wait til you get back _

Hopefully Cas would be half as riled up and horny as Dean was right now. They might not be able to meet in person, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy the shared adrenaline high of a kill gone well.

Not even halfway back to Sam’s place, Dean felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. A brief look told him it was Cas, so he pulled over. Fuck he hoped Cas was back at his hotel already and willing to indulge Dean.

**_Cas >> impatient aren’t we_ **

_Dean >> well no one’s been around to fuck me _

_Dean >> what’s a boy to do? _

**Cas >> so you thought you’d ask your boyfriend for phone sex?**

_Dean >> you gonna say no? _

Instead of another text message, Dean’s phone vibrated with an incoming call.

“Why would I say no?” Cas’ deep voice was like a caress, and Dean immediately unbuckled and opened up his jeans. He knew that tone, and he knew Cas was feeling it just as much as he was.

“No clue. Maybe you’re not into the long distance thing. You know my hand’s already on my dick, right?”

“I didn’t realize I’d given you permission for that.”

“You didn’t, but again, long distance. You won’t be able to punish me or tie me up ‘til you get back.”

“You know that’s exactly what I’m going to do, right?”

“Look forward to it. Now tell me what you’re wearing and how hard you’re gonna fuck me against my dining room table.”

Cas groaned at that. The choice had been deliberate, the only subtle way Dean could hint at what Cas had been doing that night and the easiest way he could get a reaction, and he was pleased to know it worked.

“The dining room?” Cas asked. “We won’t even make it to the bedroom?”

“You tell me. You jerking off yet or you being patient and waiting for me to say you can?”

There was a brief snort. “Of course I’m touching myself. My boyfriend sends me a needy, pathetic message begging to get fucked. I’m only human.”

“Mmmm didn’t know you had such a soft spot for me. C’mon, babe, tell me what you’re gonna do to me. The dining room,” Dean prompted. “I’m in the dining room, eating dinner. Don’t even know you’ve come over to punish me. What do you do?”

“I’d grab you from behind,” Cas growled. “Take you by surprise. Hit you maybe, choke you until you’re disoriented… Tie you up if I need to.”

“You won’t need to. I’m not fighting back.”

_I’m also insanely close to coming, so I don’t really need the extra foreplay…_

“Good.” There was the sound of skin on skin as Cas worked himself over. If only Dean weren’t stuck in some random ass car, they could’ve done a video chat instead. He bet Cas looked beautiful right now. Flushed from jerking off and the thrill of a murder gone right. Specks of blood on his clothes and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Fucking breathtaking. “I don’t think I’d bother to open you up. This is a punishment, after all, and you’d enjoy that too much.”

Dean did actually whine, but he didn’t protest.

“Instead I’d force you to your knees and fuck into that pretty mouth of yours. I like it when you’re hoarse for days because of me, because of my hands around your neck or my cock down your throat.”

“You coming down my throat or you coming on my face?”

“Face.”

“Good.”

They didn’t talk much after that, mostly just grunted as they slowly raced towards orgasm. It wasn’t the full story, at least not for Dean. He was imagining all of that happening in the house Cas had burnt down, the murder victims growing cold as their dead eyes stared at their bloody wings. Cas owned them, and he owned Dean too; there was no place he’d rather have Cas take control of him than right there.

He really hoped Cas was imagining the same.

Considering how easy it’d been to talk Cas into phone sex, Dean was confident he was.

The idea of them sharing in that fantasy was what pushed Dean over the edge. They were so close to sharing _everything_ , and all they had to do was get past the next few days.

“Well,” Dean said as he reached for a box of tissues to clean himself up. He didn’t really want to explain come stains to the car rental place. “That was fun.”

Cas hummed in response. The fucker at least was in a motel room and didn’t have to worry about cops pulling over to investigate.

The thought made Dean stifle a laugh; he’d come from witnessing a brutal double homicide, and it’d be the cherry on the cake if he got arrested for public indecency instead.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’ll tell you about it later.” Much later. “We having dinner when you get back to town?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“At my place?”

There was a slight chuckle. “I was wondering if you were kidding about the dining room thing.”

“Nope. I’ll even leave the door unlocked for you to do whatever the fuck you want when you get there.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Me too, sweetheart. See you then.”

_Now all I gotta do is figure out how to tell you who I really am…_

_And not get killed in the process._


	9. Cat's Out of the Bag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! Kinda! So I’m back with an update, but there aren’t going to be updates as frequently as there were in the summer. I’m in the midst of a few other projects that have deadlines coming up, so my main focus is there. I’m hoping to do monthly updates from here on out.
> 
> But I do have some good news :) Other projects means other, fully completed fics that’ll be appearing on ao3 in the next few months. I’ve finished my deancas pinefast fic, my dean big bang, and I’m in the process of a sastiel big bang and will be participating in the dcj big bang. So those fics are all on the way!
> 
> You can also visit me on tumblr @jhoomwrites where I post new ficlets almost daily :)
> 
> I also wanted to go over the dub!con tag I added. It very much borders on non!con, so I have more details on that in the endnotes if you’re worried you might want to skip that. It doesn’t happen until the end of the chapter.
> 
> One last note! Keep in mind it's been a while since I've worked on this fic. I'm a little fuzzy on the details (and quite frankly, too lazy to reread previous chapters), so I might accidentally contradict things I've already written.

“I don’t understand. Why don’t you just tell him?”

“Hey, can you keep tabs on this story for me?” Dean handed Sam his phone. He’d pulled up an article on a bizarre and tragic house fire that initial reports were calling a ‘freak accident.’

Sam barely glanced at the phone. “Yeah, sure. I still don’t get why you’re not at your boyfriend’s hotel right now fucking his brains out while cutting into him like I showed you. Dude’s got a thing for blood, I bet he’d let you.”

“You think so—? That’s not the point.” Dean snatched his phone back. “I’m texting you this article so you actually read it instead of pretending you care. And I can’t just _tell_ Cas.”

“Why not?” Sam looked at him like he was crazy. “You kill people, he kills people. You both like the same weird sex stuff. Sounds like a match made in heaven to me.”

“Uh huh. And what if some guy came up to you and laid out everything he knew about what you were doing downstairs in your sex torture dungeon? You’d be okay with that?”

“No, probably not.”

“And what would you do?” he prompted. God Sam was slow sometimes, especially for a genius lawyer type.

“Probably try to bribe the guy until I found dirt I could blackmail him with.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “Okay, but imagine you were Cas. I.e. a serial killer. And someone told you point blank that they knew you were a killer and then had all these very intricate details about said killings. How do you think you’d react?”

A light obviously went off in Sam’s head. “You think he’ll try to kill you.”

“No, Sam, I’m worried he’ll try to buy me flowers. Of fucking course I’m worried he’ll try to kill me! He’s a killer! That’s what killers _do_!”

Sam shrugged. “Sorry. My mind doesn’t immediately jump to killing. So many other, bloodier ways to get what I want.”

“You clearly have never seen one of Cas’ crime scenes. It’s plenty bloody.”

“Uh huh.” That was Sam’s bored voice; as far as Sam was concerned, this conversation was almost done. “But he kills his victims first. Too quiet. What’s the fun if you can’t hear them scream?”

“What’s the fun if they can _walk away_ afterwards?” Dean countered.

“... You get to do it again later?”

“... But the killing’s the fun part.”

The brothers stared at each other with narrowed eyes until they each huffed in disbelief and let it go. Neither was ever going to convince the other, and that was probably for the best. Dean was in no way equipped to start torturing people for fun—he just didn’t have the mindset for it—and Sam was similarly ill suited for murder. If they started dabbling in the other’s hobby, they’d end up getting both of them caught.

“Look, I gotta head back, but I’m serious about watching this story. If Cas gets tied to this, it’s gonna blow up in his face with the Baltimore investigation going on. I need a head’s up if they stop calling this an ‘accident’ and start calling it ‘arson.’”

“Yeah, I got it.” Sam rolled his eyes. “I’ll track the story. But first do you want to come downstairs? Called in one of my male clients so I could show you how sounding works…”

~ ~ ~

Dean got back from California at four am, just in time to get two hours of sleep before going in for work. The problem with arranging things so last minute, he wasn’t actually able to make things convenient for himself. As soon as he arrived at his desk, he saw nothing but paperwork and rescheduled interviews.

“Fuck my life,” he grumbled.

“What’s that?” Garth handed him a cup of coffee and smiled brightly. “How was your brother? Must be nice, getting out there to see him!”

“He’s good.” The coffee was damn near scalding, but Dean chugged half of it. If he was actually going to stay awake long enough to see Cas tonight, he’d have to double up on the caffeine. May as well get an early start. “Any big cases come in or new leads?”

“Nope!” Instead of looking put out, Garth smiled brightly as if he’d announced they’d solved every murder in the city. “Just the usual. You didn’t miss a thing.”

“Great.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to calculate how much work he had to do. He’d dropped pretty much everything before he’d left, and he’d have to pay for it today. Dinner with Cas wasn’t until seven, but Dean doubted he’d be able to leave before six thirty at the earliest. It’d be tight timing. Possible, but tight.

_You could always just reschedule…_

_Yeah fucking right._

It took monumental effort, but Dean buckled down and did his work. His thoughts were racing, always going back to Cas. Work came first, though, at least if he wanted to have a chance to talk to Cas _tonight_.

Anticipation built and built as the hours ticked by.

The pile on his desk steadily went down. Not fast enough for him to head out when Garth did at six. Or at six thirty like he’d hoped. Seven came and went, and Dean was trapped in a conversation with Victor about some random ass case Dean couldn't care less about. The minutes ticked by until Victor _finally_ shut up and let Dean go.

Even racing through the streets and ignoring more traffic laws than he should, Cas beat him there. When he pulled up to the house, Cas was sitting on his steps reading the paper. Dean pulled into his parking spot, smiling at Cas through the window.

“Sorry I’m late,” he huffed breathlessly as he rushed up the steps. Cas held the door open for him.

“Admittedly, I was looking forward to fucking you over your dining room table,” Cas said with a wry smile. “But plans can be adjusted.”

“Yeah me too.” His keys jingle loudly as he scrambled to get the damn door unlocked. The fantasy that had kept him on edge the better part of the day had fizzled out. “Maybe next time.”

A warm hand covered Dean’s and stilled his attempts to jam a random key into the doorknob. “Dean. I’m not upset that you’re late. There’s no need for _you_ to be upset, either. I am more than well acquainted with the pressures work can impose upon us and how it can unexpectedly change our schedules.”

Cas was right, he needed to calm down. So things weren’t going the way he’d imagined, he couldn’t let it throw him off. Being nervous was _not_ the way to go about tonight. Approaching a murderer about his “extracurricular activities” was tricky enough. If Dean showed a second of weakness while he did it…

Well, he didn't really want to find out how badly that could go. Dean wasn’t exactly in fighting form right now, not when he spent all his free time with Cas instead of hunting down his next kill.

_But wouldn’t it be awesome if I didn’t have to choose between the two?_

“Thanks,” Dean said and spared his boyfriend a quick kiss before finally clicking the key into place. “Sorry, I’m kind of a mess. Guess I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Dean.”

They kicked off their shoes and Dean let Cas wander on into the kitchen while he dropped off his gun and badge upstairs. He wanted them out of sight and completely out of mind when he approached Cas today. Cas needed to see him as Dean Winchester, his boyfriend and a boy he’d met once years ago, _not_ as a cop.

“You don’t have a lot of options for dinner,” Cas said from the fridge. “Your milk’s expired and you have more condiments at this point than actual ingredients.”

Dean’s shoulders slumped. Fuck, he’d said he’d make dinner, hadn’t he? It hadn’t even occurred to him to go grocery shopping.

_You’re a fucking mess. Pull yourself together. You’re treading dangerous ground as is…_

“Ugh, forgot to go grocery shopping. Pizza sound good?”

“Pizza sounds excellent.”

Their date night ended up so bland in comparison to what Dean had planned. Cas talked about his trip and Dean made up things he’d done at work in the meantime. The pizza and some random TV sitcom provided the rest of the entertainment as Dean tried to figure out how to salvage the evening.

_This is the universe telling you not to tell him today. You’re so thrown off your game, there’s no way this is going to go well…_

“So…” Cas’ voice was husky. He turned off the TV as the show morphed into the nightly news, then leaned in to mouth at Dean’s neck. “Do I still get to fuck you tonight?”

“Yes,” Dean gasped. “Absolutely you do.”

They made out on the couch. Cas took over and Dean didn’t protest when he ended up on his back, naked and exposed. Or when Cas grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and lead him to the bed. Falling into the routine of rough sex was easy, simple.

“Next time I go out of town, you’re coming with me,” Cas said as he shoved Dean onto the bed. “I’d tie you to my hotel bed. Leave you like that while I went to do my work. Stayed out late having drinks with my colleagues, knowing you’d be waiting for me to use however I see fit. Would you like Dean?”

While he’d already spent the time to get Dean’s clothes off, Cas himself had only lost his trenchcoat. Now he took off his tie, his shirt, his pants, all with slow, measured movements. Dean licked his lips in anticipation and revelled in each new inch that was exposed.

“Fuck _yes_.”

“Good boy,” Cas praised, finally naked and crawling onto the bed over Dean. “Very good.”

They said nothing else as Cas did the rest. Cas’ hands wandered and lay claim to Dean. His right hand came up to Dean’s left shoulder and gripped so tightly he left an angry red mark there. His lips ghosted kisses along Dean’s jaw and neck as his hands trailed down to Dean’s ass and squeezed, roughly pulling to expose his hole.

“Would you like me to tie you down tonight?”

Normally Dean would be all for that. It’d be an enthusiastic _god yes!_ and Dean offering his arms and legs. Tonight… He couldn’t pin why that didn’t appeal to him, but it didn’t. The excitement that had carried him through the last few days was gone, the lousy way the night had turned out… it left him craving comfort instead of pleasure/pain. All he wanted was Cas.

“Can we just…” Dean shook his head, unable to put into words what he needed. “Could we maybe…?”

“Of course, Dean. I’ll take care of you.”

It was surreal. They hadn’t had this type of vanilla sex since their first date, and it’d gone terribly wrong then. It’d been _boring_ and unfulfilling. Now? Cas gently rocked into him again and again, and instead of frustrating Dean that there wasn’t _more_ , his toes curled in anticipation. It was so _intense_. Every second wasn’t just physical pleasure; it was peppered throughout with sparks of true feeling.

Of love.

Not the blind devotion Dean had felt for years. Actual honest to god love. Dean would die for this man, would kill for him, would do anything he asked. Would do _more_ than he asked, would do anything he could to make sure Cas happy and safe and free.

He was so totally fucked.

It was all too much. Dean’s mind whited out as he came. He floated on a wave of bliss for who knew how long. Cas’ gentle touch as he cleaned them both was the only thing strong enough for him to latch onto, to pull him back toward conscious thought.

“I love you,” he said urgently, hand on Cas’ arm to pull him close.

Wait, this wasn’t what he was supposed to be confessing tonight, was it? It felt no less important

Cas’ eyes went wide and then soft. “I love you as well, Dean.” Then he kissed Dean chastely and continued to clean them up.

It should have been a perfect moment, but it wasn’t. Cas sounded like he meant what he said, but there was that spark missing. The extra oomph that changed that “I love you” to “I _love_ you.” It was the same way Dean said it to Bobby or Sam; he cared for them both in his way, but his heart was never moved quite like it should be. His love for them was rooted more in the constancy of their presence in his life, not out of emotional connection.

And that’s all he was to Cas.

 _Better than nothing,_ Dean told himself.

In the wake of that moment of epiphany, Dean felt drained. There was no way he could confront Cas about the fires or murders tonight. Dean could barely move his arms to make room for Castiel on the bed. The idea of saying the words _I know who you really are_ was exhausting beyond belief. So instead he settled in, snuggled close to Castiel’s chest, and fell asleep listening to the sound of his lover’s heartbeat.

~ ~ ~

Dean woke up alone. That used to be so normal for him. Lately, not so much. Waking up alone felt wrong. It took him a minute to remember that Cas _had_ in fact decided to spend the night. Maybe he’d gone to the bathroom or wanted a drink of water.

The other side of the bed was still warm; Dean settled back into the blankets and tried to go back to sleep.

The minutes stretched on. The longer Cas was gone, the more restless and awake Dean became. Giving up on sleep altogether, he threw off the blankets and pulled on some sweatpants.

Maybe Cas would be interested in another round…

The bathroom was empty and a quick peek down the hallway told him there weren’t any lights on downstairs. Dean would’ve probably missed Cas altogether, but he heard the shuffling of paper coming from his office. He took a detour and pushed open the door.

At first he thought Cas was looking through Dean’s calendar. Whatever, it wasn’t like Dean cared if Cas knew his schedule. It was a strange invasion of privacy, but a harmless one. But then he saw familiar sketchbooks and notebooks littered across the desk, and he knew _exactly_ what Cas was looking at.

Shit.

He’d dreamed of this moment since he was a child. Planned and planned, rehearsed what he wanted to say. Unfortunately this wasn’t a possibility he’d accounted for.

“Cas…” Dean put his hands up and tried to keep his voice level, even though he was watching Cas like a hawk. “Look, I can explain—”

Cas stood there with his back to Dean. He’d never put a shirt on, so Dean could see the way tension rippled through his back muscles and settled in his neck. A slight flex of his arms is Dean’s only warning.

Dean barely got his arms up in time to block the first hit. It forced him to stagger back, put him off balance so that the next hit him square in the gut. His breath escaped in a sharp hit and left him exposed for another jab before Cas kicked his legs out from under him.

Thank god Cas didn’t have a knife on him. Dean thought he’d be dead on the spot.

… Dean locked the gun case, right?

He fought back—of course he did, he didn’t _want_ Cas to kill him—but the effort was half hearted at best. This was _Cas_. This was the boy in the fire. Dean never stood a chance.

In the end, he only got a few good hits in before Cas slammed him against the desk. Dean’s arms were pinned against his back and the wood pressed uncomfortably into his gut. All the evidence of his hunt, the years he’d put into tracking down Cas, were inches away from his face.

_Well if I was looking for a worst case scenario…_

“Thought you’d get me back for what happened to your parents?” Cas growled. His breath was right on the back of Dean’s neck; that should _not_ be hot right now, but he couldn’t help the full body shudder.

“No,” he gasped out. “Cas, I would never—”

“So are you going to kill me or turn me in?”

“ _Neither_. Cas, _listen to me_ —”

The feral snarl that followed went straight to Dean’s dick.

“Don’t play games with me! How can you possibly expect me to believe you’re not plotting something? After you’ve spent years tracking me down—”

“Because I love you!” Dean shouted. The words echoed throughout the house before silence followed. “Cas, I’ve been yours since the moment I saw you in that fire. I don’t want to hurt you or turn you in.

Cas paused. “Why?” he asked suspiciously. “Why would you love me? I killed your parents.”

“And _thank you_ for that.” He wished he could turn around and _face_ Cas, but whenever he moved at all, Cas pressed him down more firmly. “Seriously Cas, thank you. You made me what I am. You fucking _freed_ me, man. I’ve been in love with you since… since…”

Abruptly, Dean was freed.

He hated that.

It didn’t last long. Cas pulled Dean’s sweatpants down and pushed his legs apart. A hand square on his back held Dean in place. He could hear Cas spit, could feel him lining up behind him. Dean was still a little loose and wet from earlier, but he was in no way ready for—

“Cas!” he screamed. “Cas—!”

“Shut up.” Cas slammed his head against the desk. “ _Shut up_ , or I _will_ gag you.” All that did was draw a moan from Dean, and then an answering slap across his ass.

“You will _be quiet_ while I… while I think.” He shifted his hips and Dean bucked back against him.“You’re hard for me,” Cas said in awe. “You’re enjoying this.”

“That a joke?”

No answer.

“Cas, we’ve had sex rougher than this. You pushing me against any available surface equals major hard on.”

“I was going to _kill_ you.”

“... You changed your mind about that?”

There was a long pause.

“Undecided.”

Cas didn’t wait for Dean to adjust to the intrusion, just started fucking into him with reckless abandon. There was no sugar coating the fact that it _hurt_. It wasn’t like being fucked nice and hard after being properly prepped; it was brutal and Dean worried he’d be actually hurt after this.

_Better than dead, though. I’ll take well fucked over bleeding out any day._

“What are you doing to me?” Even though he was the one in control, the one fucking Dean nearly dry and forcibly holding him down, Cas’ voice trembled. “Why am I not killing you right now?”

Dean wondered the same thing.

“Because you love me?” he offered.

Cas whimpered but didn’t stop. “Never mattered before.”

“You killed people you love before?”

“... No.”

When their orgasms ripped through them, it was a relief. His body and mind were spent, and the come dripping onto the floor was proof. Dean was done.

Castiel pulled out and rolled Dean over none too gently. A hand was around his throat, not pressing down but the warning was clear as Cas flexed.

“We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dub!con: cas fucks dean. dean is completely on board with that, but cas does not actually _care_ about that in the moment. whether dean consented or not, cas was going to fuck him.


	10. Lil' Cassie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not supposed to be updating this fic so soon, but my muse was _very _insistent. so here's our possibly only cas pov chapter :)__
> 
> __come bug me on tumblr[@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com)!_ _
> 
> __note: i'm going to put a warning here for implied animal abuse. it's short but it's definitely there. i made it as in passing as possible, but i thought it was worth warning you guys._ _

**** “Cassie, go play while I talk to your aunt.” His mother ushered him into the parlor and Castiel obediently went. He sat by the small table in the center of the room and started playing with the wooden trains that were left there, despite not much caring for trains.

When they left, they didn’t shut the door behind them and judging by how their voices carried, they hadn’t gone far. Castiel listened with a cold disinterest, despite knowing full well they were talking about him.

“I can’t keep him,” his mother said. She sounded desperate.

“Why not?”

“I can’t do it again. He’s turning out like the others. It was bad enough watching it happen to Mikey and Luke, I can’t watch it happen to him too.”

Naomi sniffed; Castiel imagined her wrinkling her nose in distaste like she had when she’d first opened the door to them. “Are you sure your assessment is correct? You thought the same thing about Gabriel, but he’s fallen far short of expectations you built up.”

“He locked that boy in a cellar! It took days to find him, and when they did, Gabriel just laughed and said he  _ deserved _ it!” Her voice was strangled. “Naomi,  _ please.  _ You have to take him. You know I can’t protect him. I wouldn’t even know where to start-”

“Alright. There’s no need to cry.”

Moments later, both women were back in the parlor. Castiel looked up at his mother expectantly.

She kneeled down beside him, cradled his face in her hands and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m sorry, baby. I tried. I want you to know I tried.”

“It’s okay,” Castiel said. 

That only seemed to make her more upset. She gave him another kiss. “You’re gonna stay with Auntie Naomi, okay? She’s gonna take care of you.”

She fussed over him a little more before she wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve and rushed out of the room. Castiel felt he should follow, but she’d told him he was supposed to stay.

“Well, Castiel,” Naomi said as she looked him over. “It looks like we have some work to do.”

~ ~ ~

“Castiel?”

He looked up from his meal, head cocked to the side as he waited for Naomi’s question.

“Do you miss your mother?”

_ Did  _ he miss his mother? 

He’d been used to her company, used to seeing her every day. He enjoyed when she smiled at him and read him stories before bed. She cooked better than Aunt Naomi and was friendly than his older brothers. If she were here, he would gladly sit with her and tell her about his day and politely ask about hers, though he wasn’t sure he cared to know the answer.

But did he  _ miss _ her? Did he long for her company now that he didn’t have it?

“No,” Castiel said simply. 

“Castiel.” Naomi said his name as a sigh, disappointment clear on her features. “We’ve been over this. That’s the wrong answer.”

“Oh.” He did remember Naomi telling him that he missed his mother, almost as an order. But he wasn’t aware that he was supposed to lie and  _ say _ he missed her when he in fact did not. “Mama told me not to lie, though.”

“Your mother told you that because she wanted to control you. Knowing the truth of what you were thinking was critical of that. I’m not here to control you, Castiel. I’m here to save you.”

Castiel didn’t really believe her. He didn’t necessarily  _ disbelieve _ her, but he didn’t understand why he was here instead of his old home or why his mother was gone.

Or what he needed to be saved from.

Naomi sighed again, then pulled over his coloring book. He’d filled in all the pictures and was now going back through and adding in backgrounds, doing his best with the twenty colors that came in the box.

“Lying is an art, much like this.” She tapped the open page. “But it’s one that you  _ must _ master if you wish to survive out in the real world. An excellent liar can blend in wherever he chooses without suspicion, and that is something you  _ desperately _ need to learn.”

Naomi kept alluding to his future. It was a common topic of conversation, and Castiel trusted her to get him there, to make him like Luke and Michael… He wanted what they had, or what little he knew about it. Each glimpse into their lives was exciting, a picture into a world he craved despite not knowing what it was.

“Let’s try again,” Naomi said and pushed the coloring book back towards him. “Castiel, do you miss your mother?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“Better,” she said with a nod. “But don’t hesitate. That gives away the lie. Castiel, do your miss your mother?”

Without missing a beat, he answered: “Yes.”

“Good.” A wide smile crossed her face and he was pleased to have succeeded. “Much better.  _ But _ …” Castiel’s shoulders fell. He’d still managed to do it wrong. “You still have much to learn. It’s not just saying the right lie at the right time. It’s making it sound like it  _ isn’t _ a lie at all. I heard your answer, but from your tone and face, I don’t believe it. Do you understand?”

Castiel thought about the movies and TV shows he sometimes watched. The people in them were so expressive, showing more emotion in one scene than Castiel was sure he’d ever felt in his whole life. Was that what Aunt Naomi wanted from him, to pretend like those people on TV?

“Yes,” he said. “I think I understand.”

“Then let’s keep trying. Castiel, do you miss your mother?”

It took some effort, but he tried to make himself look sad. His eyebrows pressed together, a sniffle from his nose as if he were about to cry, and a quiver to his bottom lip. “Yes,” he said. “I miss her a lot.”

This time, Naomi asked. “That was actually quite good. Well done. Let’s try some more. Castiel, do you  _ love _ your mother...”

~ ~ ~

“Castiel.” Her tone was a mix of annoyance and frustration. “You’re marvelous with a blade. You really should become a doctor. You’d work wonders with a scalpel! Give up this art nonsense and do something more practical.”

Michael was a surgeon. Clearly it could work.

“I don’t  _ like _ medicine. It’s boring.”

“It’s profitable.”

“I don’t  _ care _ about profit.”

“Yes, but you  _ should _ . Money can literally buy you security. I know Gabriel’s trying to be a lawyer and will do his best to protect you and your brothers, but that’s not a guarantee.”

“Money isn’t either.”

“Want to bet? Look at this country. White men commit crimes and buy their way out of it all the time.”

“... Not always,” Castiel hedged.

“True, not always, but more often than they should. If you have money, you increase your chances of being one of those men. I don’t want to wake up one day and see you on the news because you got sloppy and can’t throw money around to make the problem go away.”

Castiel sat there and silently fidgeted. He understood her reasoning, of course he did, but it didn’t make the prospect of becoming a doctor any more palatable. 

A warm hand covered his, and he startled. Naomi’s expression was sympathetic, and Castiel wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“I’m not  _ ordering _ you to become a doctor. I’ve only ever tried to shape you into the type of person who can be who he is but still hide in plain sight. It was always up to you whether you took those warnings to heart. The same with this. I’ve made my case and you’ve listened, but it’s up to you to reach a final decision. If your heart says that you should study art, then by all means, study art. I merely ask that you  _ think _ about it. You’re only sixteen, and there’s a very real possibility you might change your mind.”

In all his life, he’d never cared for anything the way he did art. The beauty in the right mix of colors was breathtaking, and he wanted to explore that. He’d been putting together a few plans of his own when it came to art, convinced that blood was the perfect shade, and he knew it was something he would continue to work on no matter what. 

The one love of his life was art, the only thing he had anything close to a real meaningful connection. Yes, he’d forged relationships with his brothers and Naomi, but those were out of necessity and because they  _ happened _ to be related. He could part with any of them if need be, and he didn’t think he’d miss them if he did.

“I doubt it.”

He anticipated more of an argument. Naomi wouldn’t outright force him to sign up for medical school, but she was stubborn and would likely not concede the point for many years.

He should’ve known better than to think he could predict her so well.

“Well then,” she said with an indulgent smile, “I look forward to seeing what my little artist becomes.”

~ ~ ~

His hands were shaking as he tried to sneak in the back door. The blood was dry, but his hand still couldn’t get a good grip on the handle. He didn’t know how many times he tried, failing each time. 

Eventually a light in the kitchen flicked on and Naomi pulled the door open for him.

Her frown turned into absolute shock as she took in his appearance. She yanked him by the scruff of his neck and slammed the door shut. She didn’t stop in the kitchen, instead flicking off the light and dragging him downstairs. 

The basement windows were completely boarded up, the walls soundproofed, and a stainless steel shower set up in one corner. In the muted light, Naomi turned on the spray and thrust Castiel underneath it, clothes and all.

Piece by piece he took the clothes off and tossed them aside, then gave himself over to Naomi’s watchful eye.

It was rough treatment as she scrubbed his body clean and washed his hair again and again, but he deserved it. He deserved every bit of her scorn and anger right now.

“I messed up,” he whimpered when she finally deemed him clean enough to turn off the water.

“Shhh,” she soothed as she grabbed a towel and helped him dry off. “I know, I know. We’ll fix it. Tell me what happened?”

Lawrence.

It was his first murder. Gabriel had hinted that he should try something bigger than animals while he was still legally a minor, just to make sure he had a taste for it. So he’d plotted and planned. Spent hours working on the sigils he’d make and practicing techniques for making the wings. Obviously he’d put in the extra time to learn how to start the right type of fire and how best to subdue his victims, but those were things he’d had ample opportunity to work on over the years.

Luke especially had been helpful in that regard.

So he’d driven all the way from Kansas City to Lawrence to try. 

Actually killing someone, sticking the knife in and watching the blood pour out, it’d been spectacular. He distinctly remembered how the blood felt on his hands as he painted; he’d spend the rest of his life chasing that feeling as often as he could.

The fire went as planned. He was confident it’d look like an accident, and he was even more sure they wouldn’t be able to put it out before it consumed the whole house or at the  _ very _ least the living room where the actual murders had taken place. 

If only that was the end of the story… 

“I didn’t know they had children,” he gasped out, on the verge of sobs. “I didn’t kill them. The sirens were too close. They saw me, saw me well enough that they could tell someone—”

“How old?” Naomi demanded. “The children, how old?”

How should he know? He only had older brothers and Naomi had taken him out of public school ages ago. 

“Uh… elementary school aged, I think. The older one he was about this tall and the smaller one was about this tall.”

“Hmmm.” Naomi put a hand to her chin as she considered. “That’s admittedly not great, but not terrible. Kids that young, they’ll hopefully chalk it up to the trama.”

“But they  _ saw _ me.” He remembered the unblinking stare of the older boy and shivered.

“Doesn’t matter. Even if they saw you, they’ll have to remember you. Then someone will have to believe you were real. And  _ then _ they’ll have to actually  _ find _ you. The testimony of two boys who just lost their parents and home to a fire is nothing without physical evidence, which they don’t have. All of those things are each highly unlikely, but together they’re even less so.”

Naomi’s confidence made him feel a little better. “So what do we do now?”

“We’ll have to burn the clothes, obviously. Bleach the shower. Did you take my car? Of course you did, you’re not foolish enough to take public transportation. I’ll have Uriel take a look at it, he’s discreet. Did anyone else see you aside from the children?”

“No, I-I don’t think so.”

“Think carefully. When you were driving back, would anyone have been able to see anything?”

“No,” he said more confidently. He’d been rattled but he’d also been careful. He’d put his sweatshirt back on and driven well within the speed limit, making full stops at all lights. At best he might look a little young to be out so late, but that wasn’t reason enough for anyone to remember him. “No one saw me.”

“Well, that’s something.”

Naomi continued to walk him through everything step by step. She handled a lot of it herself, but she made sure Castiel watched and knew  _ exactly _ what she was doing. It went without saying that Castiel would do it again; she’d seen the excitement in his eyes when he’d talked about the actual murders, and she knew his brothers well enough not to doubt the rest. 

The next morning, Castiel grabbed the remote to turn on the TV, only to have her snatch it away.

“I want to see if it’s on the news.”

“I’m sure it is, but you will  _ not _ watch. I don’t often give orders, but I  _ forbid _ you to look into this murder. You will do your absolute best to forget it ever happened.”

“Forget it?” His cheeks flushed. He didn’t  _ want _ to forget the way the knife cut through that woman’s throat or how beautiful her husband looked with bloody wings.

“Part of being a good liar is not having to lie. Whenever possible, you should tell the truth. Do  _ not _ think about this fire. Do  _ not _ think about those boys. Forget  _ all _ of it. Keep only what you need so you can do better next time, but do  _ not _ let the details linger.  _ I _ will keep an eye on any investigation that happens should we need to adjust our plans, but other than that, we will stay away.”

Castiel didn’t like it, but he followed his aunt’s advice. He made mental note of what went well, what he should improve, and what altogether didn’t work. Then he did his best to forget  _ everything _ about Lawrence.

He’d get his chance to try again. Once this whole thing had died down, once he’d moved somewhere else. Now was too risky.  _ Remembering _ was too risky.

So he completely forgot the boy in the flames.

~ ~ ~

“I’m proud of you, Castiel. This isn’t quite how I imagined your life would go, but you’ve done well for yourself. I foresee a very bright future.”

Castiel preened under the praise. He’d graduated from grad school and had accepted a job at a museum in Maryland. And during the few weeks he had between the end of school and the start of work, he’d set aside time to kill. Everything was going well, and he was glad even his aunt thought so.

“Thank you.”

They continued eating dinner, when a stray thought occurred to him. One he’d wondered about more and more over the years.

“Are you really my aunt?”

Naomi nearly choked on her drink and then laughed in genuine surprise. “What makes you think I’m not?”

He shrugged. His connection to Michael, Luke, Raphael, and Gabriel had been clear from the start, but never Naomi. She’d always been his “aunt” but that didn’t mean an actual blood connection between them. Perhaps he was just curious.

“I am, for the record. On your mother’s side, though I know your father quite well too. I’d rather not get into  _ that _ mess. Your father…” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “It’s no wonder you boys are the way you are, is all I can say. You five aren’t even his only children. He has at least a few more that I know about and probably several that I  _ don’t _ , all of them with a piece of his madness. Yet the bastard does nothing to prepare any of you for the future. You’re lucky you boys had me, your mother was terrible at handling this sort of thing.”

She was absolutely right. Without Naomi, he’d probably be in a cell for Lawren—

_ Do not think about Lawrence! _ he scolded himself.

After the mental reprimand, he went back to dinner as though nothing had happened.

~ ~ ~

“I hate to be that guy—”

“Then don’t,” Castiel snapped as he stormed through the living room into the kitchen.

“Okay, so maybe I don’t hate it. But seriously, you should  _ not _ date a cop. Especially one working this case. You’re playing with fire.”

Castiel squinted at his older brother. “Is that a joke?”

“... Damn, I wish it were. That would’ve been a good one.”

Ignoring Gabe, he started looking through the fridge for something remotely palatable. He wish he were surprised to find nothing but takeout containers and baked confections. 

“That’s  _ why _ I’m dating him,” he said as he gave up on the fridge and took out his phone. If he was going to eat takeout, it at least was going to be fresh. “I want to know about the investigation.”

“Yeah that’s a great plan and all, but you  _ suck _ at dating. Human interaction isn’t your forte, but you manage to fake your way through it most of the time. Dating? Way too intimate for that.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said dismissively. “Chinese or pizza?”

“Both. I’m starving. But seriously, watch yourself around Winchester. He’s damn good at what he does. If he catches a whiff of dishonesty, he’ll pounce all over it.”

“Uh huh. I’ll keep that in mind.”

~ ~ ~

“Castiel.”

He squeezed his phone in a death grip and silently cursed himself for not checking the caller ID before picking up. “Naomi.”

Fuck.

“Gabriel tells me you’ve been busy lately.”

“… No more than usual.”

_ Gabriel wouldn’t tell her… _

“He also said you’ve started seeing someone. A detective, if I’m not mistaken.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and wished his brother was here so he could strangle him. As if Castiel didn’t know the risks.

“I am.”

A pause. “How’s that going?”

“Naomi,” he huffed. “There’s no need to worry.”

“I hope not. If you get too far in, there’s no way you’re going to be able to take your…  _ usual _ way out.”

They never talked about  _ it _ over the phone. It was a topic they danced around, just in case anyone was listening. But the message was clear:  _ You’re in too deep. You won’t be able to kill him without implicating yourself. _

The longer this went on, though, the more Castiel came to an even more startling conclusion: he didn’t  _ want _ to kill Dean. That put him in a more dangerous position than anything else.

“I know.” His voice was hoarse, so he cleared it and tried again. “I know that. I just want… I thought maybe…”

“... Do you see this lasting long term?”

“I don’t want it to end,” he admitted. “But I don’t know how to make the adjustments necessary for this to  _ be _ long term.”

“Hmmm… would it  _ require _ adjustments? I know your work takes you out of state quite often. Does your detective mind this?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“His work schedule would keep him busy, I suspect. Detectives don’t get a lot of vacation time. He wouldn’t be able to travel with you very often, would he?”

“No, I doubt he would.”

“So at least for the time being, not a whole lot would need to change, is that correct?”

“Yes, it is.”

There was silence on the line; Castiel checked to make sure the call hadn’t been disconnected.

“Relationships are a lot of work,” Naomi said carefully. “If you’re will to put the effort into this one, then I wish you all the best.”

Castiel couldn’t hold back a grin. “Thank you.”

~ ~ ~

Though he liked Dean more than he probably should, he wasn’t as careless as Gabriel seemed to to think. He  _ was _ using Dean to keep track of the museum case, which still hasn't produced any suspects. 

“He’s hiding something,” Gabriel warned. “A guy that hot can get anyone he wants. Why’s he with you? No offense.”

The words hadn’t stung, but it had made Castiel wonder. Dean was aesthetically pleasing. From what Castiel could tell, he was well liked. He was smart and funny, he had a good job. He was far more put together than Castiel was, yet he’d almost instantly sought out Castiel. Why?

Looking through Dean’s house proved fruitless. They were always together, and the few times Castiel had slipped out of bed in the night to look on his own had come to nothing. No matter how quiet and careful he was, Dean woke up and Castiel would have to make the excuse of going to the bathroom or getting a drink. He never had  _ time _ . 

In three months, all he’d managed to find out was that Dean kept a locked drawer to his desk. It would probably be easy to pick the lock, but with the few minutes he could steal here and there, he’d never be able to do it.

He’d keep his eyes open. He was bound to get an opportunity  _ eventually. _

~ ~ ~

Did he love Dean? he asked himself as he gently stepped off the bed. For once, Dean didn’t stir, but Castiel didn’t believe it would last. 

He certainly liked Dean more than most people. If given the choice, he’d spend time with Dean over anyone else. He was willing to make adjustments to his lifestyle— _ minor _ ones, granted—to accommodate their relationship. 

He tiptoed across the room, making sure to angle himself towards the bathroom for when Dean inevitably woke up and asked him where he was going.  

_ When I think about the future, I think of Dean being there. I don’t  _ **_want_ ** _ a future without Dean. Surely that’s some sort of love, isn’t it? _

Castiel got all the way to the bathroom before he realized Dean  _ hadn’t _ woken up. He hadn’t even stirred and still snored gently from where he was wrapped around his pillow. 

_ Well then. I suppose I’ll start with the office and work my way from there…  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i believe this is the first and only time i've ever written a naomi i like...


	11. On the Same Page

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yaay! an update :)
> 
> sorry it's been a while. life and work and other projects have kind of distracted me. i haven't abandoned the story and it's not any intentional hiatus, but updates will continue to be slow. thank you guys for sticking it out though <3
> 
> feel free to come chat with me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com)

Castiel’s fingers pressed into Dean’s neck hard enough to bruise. Dean gasped for air and Cas let up his hold just enough so he could breathe.

And talk.

“Explain to me why I shouldn’t kill you,” Castiel said in a tone Dean’s only imagined from him, something dark and menacing that he’d only ever gotten a hint of before.

It was hot as fuck.

“Because.” Dean wiggled his hips so they brushed against Cas’. “You’d rather fuck me than kill me.”

His fingers flexed. “Don’t tempt me. I’m not adverse to doing both at the same time.”

Dean suppressed a shiver. Death threats should _not_ turn him on.

“Fine,” he said evenly, as if the love of his life wasn’t a good grip away from choking him to death. “I’m a cop. One people know you’re dating. People have seen you around my place plenty of times. You’re also under at least some scrutiny for that fire you set at Mildred’s. People are dumb, but they’re not _that_ dumb. They’ll figure it out.”

_Plus Sam will make sure they do… but I probably shouldn’t put Sam on your radar in case I can’t talk you down._

Rage, pure and red hot, flickered through Castiel’s eyes briefly. In that instant, Dean saw his own death and the hell Cas would rain down on anyone who tried to make him pay for it.

It didn’t last long, though.

Yes, Cas was a killer, but he hadn’t survived this long by giving in to his basest emotions. He’d survived by being careful. This whole mess that he’d accidentally stumbled into, this was the opposite of careful.

This was a powder keg waiting to go off and ruin both their lives.

Reluctantly, Cas let Dean go. He even backed out of Dean’s personal space, and the first time since he’d stepped into the office, Dean thought maybe he could salvage this.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Dean promised as he pushed up from the desk, then winced. “Lemme uh… clean up a bit first?”

Cas shrugged with feigned disinterest before storming back to the bedroom. It spoke volumes that he didn’t wait to see if Dean was following or offer to help… but Dean wasn’t dead and Cas was staying to hear him out, so he was counting it as a win so far.

He spared a glance for Cas—sitting on the edge of the bed and glaring at the curtains—before ducking into the bathroom. Dean normally didn’t care much about cleaning up post sex. He could always shower in the morning, and as long as he wasn’t going to wake up sticky or with anything caked on him, he was good.

Right now, he took extra care to wash away every hint of sex. He needed to buy himself time, even if it was only a few minutes, so he could put his jumbled thoughts together.

How the fuck was he going to make Cas believe him?

As soon as he stepped into the bedroom, Cas leveled him an accusing stare. “You know everything about my work, yet your files have next to nothing about _me_. Did you only find me by accident?”

“Yes.” There was no point in denying it. He’d worked damn hard to find Cas, and really it was only coincidence that he’d been assigned to Cas’ case. “I could figure out patterns in the fires, but that didn’t really help me track _you_ down. Doesn’t help me find someone if I can only recognize them once they’re gone.”

“But once you learned my name,” Castiel said slowly, eyeing Dean like he was some puzzle he was trying to solve, “why didn’t you continue your research? Find out my past, my personal history?”

Dean gave a half shrug. He wanted to sit next to Cas on the bed, but that seemed like a bad move. There needed to be distance between them right now, a barrier to make Cas feel safe and to slow him down if he attacked Dean again.

And maybe a little was to avoid the temptation of getting on his knees and begging Cas’ forgiveness.

“I don’t care about your history? I mean, I do. I care about you, so yeah I care about that… but I’d met you. All the stuff you saw in there, that was to _find_ you. I found you, so why would I keep digging? I could just ask _you_ everything I wanted to know. Or uh… at least that was the plan. I hadn’t really gotten around to figuring out _how_ to tell you without you trying to kill me.” Dean winced and self-consciously rubbed at his throat. “Still haven’t, I guess.”

Cas turned back to the curtains and the wall. “You said you love me. That makes no sense. I tried to forget, but part of me remembers those little boys in the flames. I was covered in their parents’ blood. If they’d survived, if they’d remembered me at all… Why would they wish me anything but ill?”

“Cas…” His fingers ached to reach out and brush against Cas’ cheeks, but he didn’t dare move that close. “I _do_ love you. I wasn’t lying. I’ve loved you since that night. Took me a while to understand that—”

“You said I freed you. Explain.”

His voice was so monotone, so expressionless, it was almost like their first date. Going through the motions without any personal interest in the end result.

It fucking broke Dean’s heart.

“I’d have never been able to become who I am with my parents around. My mom was a good person. Kept my dad in line, at least as far as I understand it. I wouldn’t have been able to…” Dean stopped short, and suddenly realized why Cas was so on edge.

“Shit, you still think of me as a cop, don’t you?”

That startled Cas enough that his head whipped around to look at Dean. “How can I not, _detective_?”

Against his better judgement, Dean stepped forward. He kept his arms up where Cas could see them, moved slowly as he settled on the ground a few feet in front of Cas. He wanted them to be eye to eye for this, so that Cas could see the truth in it.

“Cas, I kill people. I go out of my way to do it on the job, and when I know I can’t get away with it without people looking at me funny, I wait until the case is over and track ‘em down myself. I actually get to have more fun that way, play with my knives instead of shooting.”

His lips quirked in a smile; he wasn’t sure which time he was thinking of (all the faces tended to blur together), but he could almost feel the blood on his hands, the smell of death in the air, and that giddy sense of _right_ that only fell into place when he killed.

Warm hands cradled Dean’s cheeks. Gentle but firm as they forced Dean to refocus on the world around him instead of distant memories.

“How many?” Cas demanded, his voice a harsh rasp.

“Sixteen, I think. I don’t really write ‘em down or anything, so sometimes I forget—”

Dean was abruptly cut off by a kiss, demanding and so full of feeling Dean couldn’t even bring himself to kiss back. It was all he could do to feel it, to experience that raw emotion Cas poured into him; he was along for the ride.

“Cas,” he whimpered when Cas pulled away. He reached blindly for Cas, for anything to keep his balance. “What—?”

“Tell me _everything_ ,” Cas demanded. “How you hunt, how you kill, how you hide it.”

Dean licked his lips. “Oh, I’d love to, sweetheart. And I will, but this has gotta go both ways. I tell you everything, you gotta tell me things.”

“You _know_ everything,” Cas huffed in annoyance.

“No, you said it yourself. I know about your _work_. I don’t know about your past. Your family, how you got into this, if anyone helped you… I mean, I figure Gabe’s gotta know a _little_ , but that’s just me speculating.”

Cas was quiet as he appraised Dean. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“No shit. Outside this house, don’t tell anyone anything. I don’t, and I don’t expect you to, either. All I’m asking is you trust _me_.”

“... You could put me in jail with what you _already_ know. I don’t want to give you _more_.”

“Babe, I will tell you enough about my past that you could turn me into any cop in Maryland and a few other states besides. I already trust you with my life.” With a sweeping motion, he pointed out his bruised neck. “I doubt it’s your style to fuck it up and leave me alive afterward.”

“It’s not,” Cas admitted. “And I dislike that you _know_ that—”

“And you’ll know as much about me, I swear. Just… just give this a chance, okay? I share, you share. I’ll share more until it’s evened out, that sound fair?”

Cas wrinkled his nose. “Who determines when it’s even?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, lemme go add to my file that you’re a fucking asshole to negotiate with. Don’t think I have that in there.”

“I deal with art acquisitions for a living. Of _course_ I’m an asshole to negotiate with.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. Things were strained, but they weren’t broken. This was still Cas, and Cas was giving him a chance.

“What?” Cas asked suspiciously.

“I just really fucking love you.” He sighed and rested his head on Cas’ shoulder. “Remember that, okay? Remember that what we had up until tonight still exists. I still love you, you still care enough about me not to kill me, and if you give this a chance, it’ll only get better. The only thing that’s changed is that now you know there’s this other side to what we are and what we can be together. And I am really, _really_ excited to start exploring that with you.”

“I’ve never dated anyone like me before.”

“Yeah, me neither. I barely even know anyone else like me.”

“Your… brother?” Cas asked cautiously. “Is he…?”

Dean really didn’t want to bring Sam into this, but he’d made this huge declaration about love and trust, and it’d be fucked up of him not to follow through on it so soon afterward. With a sigh, he rolled back onto his heels and started to get up.

“Yes and no. Doesn’t like killing, but he likes making people hurt. Since he’s not killing ‘em, he actually gets a lot more time to work them over and make them scream. I’m almost jealous, but then he lets them go. Can you believe that shit? Lets them _go_.” Dean rolled his eyes as he offered Cas a hand. Cas accepted it, and Dean squeezed a little harder than necessary because _Cas_.

“I can believe it,” Cas said slowly. “I have a brother who has… similar methods.”

“Gabe?” Dean asked incredulously. “He can be a dick, but I never thought—”

“Gabe? No no, not Gabe. He’s by the book more often than not. He likes seeing people squirm, but he’s squeamish around blood and doesn’t like having to look over his back all the time for retribution.” Cas hesitates, his normal confidence waning in the face of Dean’s obvious curiosity. “Tell me about yourself first,” he insists. “Give me something more than blind fate and a possibly mistaken sense that I care about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“Everything—?”

“Start with your life before the fire. Tell me about the fire, what you felt, what happened to you afterwards. Tell me about your brother, any other family you have. Your career. Your… work outside of law enforcement. How you tracked me down. Everything.”

Dean sighed and reached to his dresser to grab his phone.

“What are you doing?” Cas snapped, but Dean held up a hand and let Cas see exactly what he was doing.

“It’s already, like, three am. If you want my life story and if you’re gonna give me yours, I’m calling off work tomorrow.”

Cas’ eyes go wide, and then he scrambles for his own phone. “Me too.”

Dean’s heart pounded in his chest; Cas was excited. Cas _wanted_ to talk. This was happening.

Holy crap.

~ ~ ~

They didn’t sleep. They did at some point take a break for coffee and pancakes, but even when they were speaking, the conversation was never far from their minds.

Dean shared first. He told Cas everything he could. Half of it sounded irrelevant, but Cas asked questions and Dean hoped at least some of Cas’ curiosity lay in knowing more about Dean as a person, not just a killer. Wishful thinking, maybe. Still, it was possible.

There was also a little show and tell involved. He could paint a pretty picture about killing people, but that didn’t mean Cas had to believe him. So he took out his knives and told Cas how he liked to use them. Which ones he used for each type of victim, how he tracked them down and cornered them, how he made it look like a crime of passion instead of a cold blooded murder for fun.

That part Cas was particularly eager about, and Dean made a mental note. Soon, as soon as feasibly possible, he should arrange a more hands on demonstration of how he worked. Cas would love it.

And he might like the audience.

It wasn’t until after breakfast that Cas finally started to open up.

He spoke very little about himself. He briefly mentioned his mother, whom he hadn’t seen in decades, and the aunt who’d raised and trained him, but Dean could tell there was more than what Cas said. He was holding back these more private things; Dean didn’t push and could only hope Cas would open up more with time.

What he did talk about were his brothers. All five of the Novak boys were… different.

There was Michael, the oldest. He liked to kidnap. Every day, he’d ask if they wanted him to kill them. Every day, he’d torture them until they screamed or passed out. He’d work them and work them until finally they told him “yes.”

Next was Luke, who took in promising young people. The first step was making them adore him. Once they loved him, practically worshipped him, he started the next part. Once he was sure they’d do _anything_ to please him, he taught them to be killers. Made them watch as he killed in front of them, then watched as they learned to do the same. When he was done, he let them loose in the world.

“He teaches them two things: to kill, and to love him before all else. He never teaches them how to avoid getting caught, so they always do. They’re too brainwashed to ever turn on him, though Luke’s smart enough that I’m sure more than half of what they ‘know’ about him is completely false.”

“Sounds like a real piece of work.” Dean was almost impressed, but there was a dark edge in everything Cas said about this brother in particular.

“I hate him,” was all Cas said, and then moved on.

Raphael was the middle brother and had… unusual sexual appetites. Cas didn’t know the specifics, but he insisted he didn’t _want_ to know them. He’d made the mistake of walking into his brother’s sex dungeon post scene. All he knew for certain was that whatever Raphael did, it wasn’t for him… and that once Raphael was done with people, he got rid of the pieces by feeding them to his dogs.

Dean immediately thought of Sam, but Cas brushed aside the comparison.

“I mean aside from the dog thing, Sammy has a sex dungeon—”

“Trust me, if your brother were at all like Raphael, you’d know.” And then he shuddered; that was all Dean needed to know about Raphael, if it could someone like _Cas_ react like that.

“So what’s Gabe’s deal? Why’s he not like you guys?”

“Isn’t he?” Cas insisted. “You’ve seen his work, and I’m sure you’ve seen him in court. He likes making people suffer as much as us. What he doesn’t like is the prospect of jail time. So he stays within the confines of the law, more or less, and enjoys serving people their just desserts in court. He likes working the law as much as I do a blade, and he’s had to practice just as much to get as good as he is.”

“... It’s not the same.”

“I agree, but Gabriel insists that it’s at least similar. We’ve argued about it many times, and at this point there’s no point in trying to change the other’s mind. I think he both enjoys and hates being the black sheep of the family. But as a lawyer, he’s well positioned to help the rest of us should we ever be implicated in any sort of crime.”

“So that’s your brothers,” Dean said quietly. “That just leaves you.”

“And me you know.”

“And you I know.”

Cas thumbed the edge of the kitchen table, staring at the wood and avoiding Dean’s eye. “I feel like I know you now, as well. Not completely, but better than I did before. It makes me realize that there was always a piece of you that I sensed. Something I knew you kept hidden. Perhaps something that I was drawn to.” Finally he looked up, bright blue eyes earnest but restrained. “I don’t know what to do.”

As slowly as he could, Dean reached across the table and took Cas’ hand in his. “We can keep going. We can still be together, but totally open with each other. I could…” He swallowed. “I could show you? What I do? I’ve seen you in action, it seems only fair. And then we could… go from there?”

“Murder boyfriends?” Cas asked with a wry smile.

“That any crazier than a blue-eyed boy who paints angels out of blood and a cop who works in the force just to hide in plain sight?”

“Surprisingly, no. But I need time to think about this.”

“Take all the time you need, sweetheart. I’ve been waiting for you since Lawrence. I can wait a little longer.”


	12. The Waiting Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, sorry for the delay between updates! Real life is always demanding attention these days XD
> 
> Because of those big gaps between updates, I want to just say... I vaguely remember what I've been doing with this story, but I'm sure I've forgotten details or will get things confused. Sorry, but also not sorry? If I had to re-read everything I've written before I tried jumping in to write a new chapter, it'd just be another reason to put off doing it at all, so I'll take the possible (likely?) continuity errors. Oh well!
> 
> As always, don't forget to visit me on tumblr [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com). Even though I'm not as active on AO3 as I used to be (and I'm going to apologize in advance for being slow to get back to comments....), I'm on tumblr a lot with ficlets and updates that don't always make it here :)
> 
> Chapter Warning: There is some blood play talk this chapter.

**** Dean’s jaw was clenched so tightly he was sure he was fucking up his teeth. 

He hadn’t stopped grinding his teeth, clenching his fists, being a fucking live wire of tension since the moment Cas left his house a few nights ago. 

A few  _ nights _ ago. It’d been practically radio silence since then. No calls, no texts, nothing. The only reason he knew Cas hadn’t skipped town—and yes, he did worry about that—was he’d called the museum. Not about Cas specifically, just a follow-up to see if any of the employees were acting strangely, had left town unexpectedly, blah blah. 

Nope. Cas had shown up for work every day, right on time. 

Meaning it was just Dean he was avoiding. And Dean, so sure he could be patient after so long, had promised to give him space and not pressure him to talk until he was ready. 

Because he was a fucking idiot, apparently.

He’d never been more stressed in his life, waiting for even a passing acknowledgement from Cas that he remembered Dean even existed. They were  _ so close _ to what Dean had always dreamed of, the precipice of something  _ amazing _ … 

If only Cas would fucking talk to him. 

Dean reached over to turn up the radio on his desk, hoping the familiar music would distract him. It didn’t help, but then again, he hadn’t expected it to.

He been so damn sure that time and space weren’t a problem. He’d wholeheartedly meant it when he promised Cas to back off. Still meant it. There were literal  _ years _ he’d already waited, so a few days or even weeks should be easy. Once they were through it, he’d laugh off how stupid he’d been, fidgeting and pouting and just wanting to fucking kill someone to get through it.

Killing someone… no there was an idea— 

_ No. Wait for Cas. _

Ugh. Guess it was back to squeezing the living bejeezus out of the stress ball Garth had given him.

Yes, Dean understood he had to back off right now, and intellectually he knew it wasn’t that big of a deal. It’s what kept him firm in his resolve  _ not _ to seek out Cas on his own. This is what needed to happen right now, and he could suck it up and deal with it, no matter how long it took Cas to figure things out.

The real problem was, all that time he’d been looking for Cas, he’d been chasing a dream. The past few months together, he’d  _ had _ that dream (or something very close, if not the specific shape of it he’d always truly wanted). Now it’d been snatched away, and he was like an impatient child, longing to get it back.

The only outlets he had for his Cas-related angst were the gun range (adequate) and venting to Sam (barely adequate). 

Sam had a lot of good qualities, but pretending to care about other people wasn’t high on that list. Most of his interest lay in scolding Dean for letting Cas walk out of the house before they’d resolved everything, or in asking for details about Cas’ psychopath brothers. 

(Worst of all, Sam seemed most interested in Luke. Dean remembered Cas’ dismissive but firm “I hate him,” more than enough for Dean to know he did  _ not _ want him near Sam. Who knew how much trouble Luke could get Sam in? Like fuck he’d help Sam track him down.)

“You look real blue.”

Dean nearly jumped out of his chair. “Wh-what?” he asked, trying to balance himself as he stared at Garth.

“You look real blue,” Garth repeated, his own wide smile broadcasting the fact that he himself has never personally been “blue.”

“I’m fine,” Dean grumbled. 

“Uh huh. You’ve been a Grumpy Gus all week.”

Dean grunted noncommittally and turned his attention to his computer. 

“Things going alright with Cas?”

He shot Garth a warning look. It just made him smile wider. 

“First fight?” he said knowingly. “I remember when Bess and I had one. It was a doozy too. About her family. Touchy subject, right? Anyhoo, I learned that the best remedy when things get too intense is to take a step back and give Bess her space.”

“I  _ am _ giving Cas his space,” Dean grit out. Not that a visit to the art gallery wasn’t constantly on his mind or his phone always within reach with a half-typed message to Cas ready to go. 

Garth’s smile didn’t fade at all. “Good! Then he’ll come around soon enough. I’m sure he’s as crazy about you as you are about him. He probably misses you like crazy right about now.”

_ Doubt it. _

Dean did his best to smile or nod or just give Garth whatever reaction he was hoping for that would end the conversation. Satisfied with whatever grimace Dean managed to pull off, Garth went back to his own work and left Dean to brood in peace.

~ ~ ~

Dean had hoped that Cas would want to maintain appearances. They were a couple, and maybe a few dates in public would be a good idea to keep up the illusion of “happy couple.” If nothing else, having Dean around offered a great screen for what Cas really was, and as pathetic as it might be to use that, Dean wasn’t exactly in a position to complain. He’d take anything Cas was willing to offer, even if it was the awkwardness of their first few dates.

And still, he heard nothing.

_ Another night to myself, _ he grumbled. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the impulse to find a target, to go out and  _ kill _ someone just for the sheer relief it might offer him. Even imagining it, there was no real pleasure from the act, but it’d be nice to feel something other than tension. During a hunt, he could focus in and shake off the distractions of day to day life. 

“And until then,” he muttered to himself as he rummaged through the fridge, “there’s always drinking.”

Beer wasn’t his ideal way of handling things, but damn if it didn’t help. He grabbed the first bottle he got his hands on, then assessed what the hell he was going to eat. His options were leftovers or cooking, and he wasn’t in the mood for either. 

Groaning, he let the door swing shut and went for the freezer. Ice cream might not be a nutritious dinner, but hey, it was better than nothing.

He was halfway through a pint of mint chocolate chip when he heard his phone buzz from the other room. Not bothering to abandon his meal (it was probably just Sam or maybe Garth), he took his ice cream with him. Even if he wanted to tell them to piss off, the company might do him some good.

When he saw the name  _ Cas _ on the screen, he about had a heart attack. 

His socks slipped a little on the hardwood as he scrambled to get to his phone because, shit, how many rings had already gone?

“Hello?” he breathed out when he finally got the damn thing up to his ear. There was nothing but silence on the other end. He worried he’d been too late, that he’d missed his chance— 

“Hello Dean.”

He let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Cas,” he croaked. “I missed you.”

Cas laughed, this barely there sound that Dean only caught because the phone was practically glued to his ear. “Are you alone?”

“It’s ten pm on a Wednesday and you’re not here. Of course I’m alone.” He said it slowly, like he was trying to piece together what Cas was implying. 

“Go to your bed. Or the couch. Sit down and tell me when you’re there.”

Blood rushed to his ears. The couch was closer, but whatever was coming, he wanted to be comfortable. 

He took the stairs two at a time. 

“I’m here,” he said, collapsing against the headboard. “Now what—?”

“Undo your pants. Touch yourself while you tell me your favorite sexual fantasy about me. Every detail.”

A moan escaped before he could even hope to contain it. “Cas… I’ve been dreaming about you for years… I can’t just… choose _ one _ …”

“Fine. Tell me one with blood.” 

Suddenly Dean’s aware that Cas is panting, that there’s a strained edge to his voice. 

He’s already jerking off. 

_ Fuck _ that was hot… 

“It’s in the shower,” Dean said in a rush. He undid the fly of his pants and pushed his boxers out of the way. There wasn’t time to do this properly, to take off his pants and set them aside. Not when Cas already had a head start on him. “It’s after. After you’ve shown me what you do. You let yourself get real bloody this time. It’s all over you. It’s fucking gorgeous, brings out your eyes, but it’s a mess.”

“Mmm, keep going.”

It was easy now, the words flowing out of him as easily as his hand stroked his cock. 

“I turn on the shower and push you inside. You’ve still got your clothes on, but it doesn’t stop me. Don’t want you getting blood everywhere. I take the time with my own clothes, folding them neatly and leaving them on the counter before I join you.

“I try to stay out of the water. The bottom of the tub’s red but you’re still covered. I take off your clothes one by one. Then I grab the soap, clean you up bit by bit…”

There was a rumble of approval on the other end of the line, making Dean’s dick twitch. 

“When you’re clean enough, I put the soap away. Make you turn around so I can open you up. Make you brace against the wall, water spraying you. I’ve been hard since you made the wings, and now I finally get to fuck into you. Tell you what it looked like to watch…”

Dean shuddered and kept going, finally having the words to actually explain that. “It’s beautiful. I’ve seen it now, seen it up close. It’s fucking beautiful how you work. How confident you are, how  _ easy _ it is… The wings look so much better than I remember as a kid… I’ve seen a lot of murder scenes, but yours is definitely the best… Makes me wanna… makes me...”

There was nothing left to say after that. His surprised cry echoed Cas’ as they came. For a moment, it was almost like nothing had changed. They’d already done this before, had phone sex in the wake of Cas’ kill, and it had edged so close to this that in Dean’s mind there’d been no difference.

Except now everything was in the open. It was all laid out in front of them, and somehow all that honesty was making things  _ worse _ .

“I miss you,” Dean said once the thrill of his orgasm had worn out and reality began to settle back into place. “Seriously. And I don’t mean the sex. I miss  _ all _ of you.”

“Apparently I miss you, too,” Cas said, only the slightest hint of annoyance in his tone. That was an improvement at least. “I’ve never  _ missed _ anyone before.”

Dean soaked in the warmth that statement brought. This was  _ definitely _ a step in the right direction.

“Y’know, we can do this in person.” It was probably a bad idea to push Cas right now, but it felt ridiculous that they were doing this over the phone. There was come all over his hand, his pants, even his shirt. Not that Dean minded getting a little messy, but it was nice when there was at least someone else  _ there _ with him. 

There was a moment of silence before Cas answered.

“Yes.”

Dean backtracked quickly to better understand what Cas was agreeing to, then he let out a happy, “Yeah?” He tried to quell the hope rising inside of him. 

“Yes,” Cas reaffirmed. “In person. We could… we could…” 

“Fuck? Kill? Talk? Honestly, I’m on board for any and all of those or anything else you got in mind—”

“All of them.” Dean didn’t even have a second to feel the overwhelming joy that threatened to burst right out of him, because Cas immediately added, “I’m coming over now.”

“Wait, like…  _ now _ now?”

“Yes. I’ll be there in thirty.”


End file.
